Nikki toured the perimeter, trying to make sense of the scene in front of her. The mechanical stage apparatus took up the center of the room with a snaking octopus of wires that all fed into a central panel manned by the plump, donut-eating tech she had noticed earlier. She could see Kit and the band on a small TV monitor at the currently unmanned desk; the tech was back at the craft services table. Taking a deep breath, she sidled up to him. “Hey,” she said, “I’m Nikki. I’m helping Trista out.” Donut Eater nodded and wiped his fingers on a napkin to shake hands. “Am I the only new person on board today?” She added a winsome smile. “Well,” said the tech, looking around as if he wasn’t sure she was talking to him, “there’s the walk-on help.” “What’s walk-on help?” “Them,” he said, waving at the black-clad men currently carrying equipment toward the loading bay. “The tour can’t bring enough people to really do just labor, so we hire out. Some towns are better than others.
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