“It’s late.”
          The man in the room flicks the switch again.
          “You need to go home. I need to go home. It’s cold out here.” The voice crackles out of his radio, aggravated.
          “Go, then.” The light flashes and the man watches it.
          The person on the other end clicks his tongue. “You need to sleep.”
          “A few more minutes.” He can see her silhouette now.
          “My friend, we’ve been here for hours.”
          “Not a full day. It’s better than last time.”
          There are many gears in this dim room. Rows of them on the ceiling running a sequence of ropes and clips and a paper person duplicated, leading to a mechanical projector, with rotating lenses and a dying bulb. One long window on the wall, drapes drawn and the world outside the darkest night.
          “People can’t live like this, it isn’t healthy.”
          “I don’t want to miss it.”
          “There’s nothing to miss.”
          “I don’t want to miss her.”
          “She’s not here if you’re not.”
          The projected dancer moves another frame, a frozen shadow surrounded by light. The man in the room reaches for the image.
          The voice on the two-way radio sighs. “I’m talking to you.”
          “I know.”
          “You need to let her go.”
          “No.” The man drops his arm to pick up scissors and cardstock.
          “What if this whole place goes up in flames? Your whole studio.”
          “You’re out there keeping watch for a reason.”
          “I thought you’d forgotten.” The watchman sighs. It comes through their connection in static. “Your art is fantastic, but in a fire, you’d save yourself, I’d hope.”
          “You’re right, she’s fantastic, the best art in the world.”
          “But that’s all she is. Art. Paper cutouts and shadows on a screen.”
          “Didn’t you say you needed to go home?”
          There’s a pause before the radio voice answers. “I’m not going home without you.”
          “There’s nothing we have to talk about. You might as well.”
          “Finish a final cutout, then let’s go.”
          “She’ll be paused midair. How can I leave her like that?”
          “Let her figure out how to land the leap herself.”
          The man in the room flicks the switch and his love flashes on the screen. A pirouette, a twirl. A half-finished leap, and it freezes. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
          “Please, I’m not leaving you here another night!” A note of desperation enters the voice on the radio.
          “I’ll be fine. I’ll eat three balanced meals.”
          “That’s not enough.”
          “Four . . .” The man trails off, searching for imperfections on his new cutout.
          “That’s not what I meant.”
          “I need to focus.”
          “You need to go home.” Loud tapping issues from the radio, surrounded by static, like the man on the other end had rapped his fingers on the input spot. “Did you know lack of sleep can cause hallucinations?”
          “I’m not hallucinating.”
          “You’re wasting away in this room, night after night. For a shadow puppet animation.”
          “I need to focus.”
          “Put down your scissors.”
          “I’m not holding scissors. You can’t see me.” The man’s eyes narrow. “You can’t see her.”
          “What does that matter?”
          “You can’t see her.”
          “Let’s go home. Please.”
          “I need to focus, and you can’t even see her.”
          “I just want my friend back. I just —”
          “Go home. Goodnight.” The man turns off the radio.
          And now it’s just him and his love in the room. She hangs on the screen, midleap, the most graceful dancer of them all.
          “We’re alone now,” he says, and she smiles.