She set the journal on the kitchen table, next to Harold’s photograph. “Well,” she said to his smiling face. “Looks like I’m back.”

“Eleanor Vance. Amanda Wingfield, Scene 3.”

“Number 17,” called a bored teenager with a clipboard.

Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: “Welcome to the company, Ms. Vance. Amanda is yours. Rehearsals start Tuesday at 7. Don’t be late.”