They talked for the rest of the afternoon. Her mother remembered more: the dock's rotten planks, the smell of juniper on the wind, the way night brought a different chorus of frogs. It was as if the rehearsal had unlocked a drawer inside her mind and slid open the things she hadn't practiced in years.
When she finished, the man tapped the page and nodded once. "Kept," he said simply.
"Something like that," the man said. "We ask people to come prepared with the shape of themselves. We give them a scene—three minutes, forty-nine seconds, one minute—and they fill the space. The rehearsal is a rehearsal for possibility."