Sophie said it had been brought by a messenger she didn’t recognize, not by UPS or our normal mail carrier. And she was right: it was ticking. Loudly. I called 911 and got the Midland Heights Police Department. When I told the dispatcher the “nature of my emergency, ” she seemed to hit the Mute button on her phone, and I got the uncomfortable feeling that she might very well have been laughing at me. But when she came back to the call, she was all business, asking the address and promising to have someone at the theatre “very soon.” I hung up the phone and stared at Sophie, who no longer looked like a radical feminist, but rather like a scared, skinny teenager, and at Jonathan, who looked like . . . Jonathan. “Get out of the theatre,” I told them. Neither of them moved. “What do you mean, get out?” Sophie said.
