"What will you be singing this time?"

With her cold and her throat feeling the way it did, Jenny knew her voice wouldn't carry any musical number with more than a two-octave range. Normally her voice was able to scale four octaves, something that had amazed and thrilled her music teachers in Custer, Montana. But such versatility wasn't uncommon here in New York.

"I'll be singing 'Rainy Days and Mondays,' " Jenny told the faceless voice. The first piano notes broke into the silence. She was forced to clear her throat, which had tightened up on her to where she could barely speak, let alone sing.

The piano player looked at her when she didn't come in on cue and played the introduction a second time. She opened her mouth and nothing came out. She tried again, and what sound did escape wasn't anywhere close to being considered musical.

Miserable, Jenny raised her hand and stopped the piano player. There was no use continuing. Not now. She couldn't do it.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, wavered, and reached out blindly, afraid she was about to collapse.

Michelle gripped her hand. "Jenny's sick ... she shouldn't even be here."

Her roommate placed her arm around Jenny's shoulders, and she slumped against Michelle, needing her friend's support to remain upright.

"She has a fever of a hundred and two," Michelle informed the casting director.

"And you are?" the loud voice boomed.

Michelle stiffened. "Her roommate. I realize this is none of my business, but I'm afraid Jenny's sick. If you want to hear her sing, our agent can supply you with any number of tapes. Come on, Jenny," Michelle said, steering her off the stage. "I'm taking you home."

"No," Jenny protested. It was bad enough that her best chance of ever appearing on Broadway was being taken away, but she wouldn't allow her own misfortune to ruin Michelle's chances, too. "You stay here."

"But-"

"I insist. Don't argue with me. This is your chance."

"But, Jenny-"

"Michelle Jordan!" the voice shouted.

Michelle wavered and looked over her shoulder.

"Are you staying or going?" the voice asked.

"Staying," Jenny answered for her. She'd meant to shout. She'd put all her effort into making herself heard, but what remained of her voice was shockingly weak.

"Oh, Jenny, are you sure you'll be all right?"

"Of course. All I need is a little rest." She managed to put on a bright smile, which depleted what little energy remained. "I'll get a taxi," she promised a second time. A real luxury, considering her finances.

"You promise?"

"Yes. Now break a leg, kid," she said in her best Humphrey Bogart imitation. "You'll have to make it for both of us." She felt like weeping but managed to keep the tears at bay until she was outside the theater.

It was snowing. Wouldn't you know it? Every man, woman, and child in New York would be looking for a cab. Jenny stepped halfway out into the street and raised her arm in an effort to hail a taxi. The cold snow was a welcome coolant as it drifted onto her upturned face.

"You're going to help her, aren't you?" Goodness asked Mercy. "That poor girl's sick and miserable."

"Of course I'm going to help her." Mercy was indignant that her friend would believe otherwise. "It's just that this is the worst time imaginable for her to find an empty taxi."

"Well, do something."

"What would you suggest?" Mercy snapped, impatient herself.

"Stop traffic."

Mercy grinned. Why hadn't she thought of that herself? It wouldn't be so difficult to create a distraction. Not with Goodness there to help her. Naturally it would work; she just hoped Gabriel didn't find out about this.

"Come on," she said, sharing a gleeful smile with her friend.

"Where are we going?"

"Times Square," Mercy answered.

"Yes, but ..."

Even Goodness looked surprised, and Mercy grinned sheepishly. "Don't worry, Gabriel will never hear of it." Well, at least she hoped that was the case.

"Look." Someone near Jenny stretched out an arm and pointed toward the huge electronic billboard above Times Square. "What in heaven's name is going on?"

Jenny looked up and did a double take. The sign that had flashed a huge Santa drinking a bottle of Coca-Cola only minutes earlier had disappeared. In its stead stood a picture of her own face, with the words flashing "Jenny needs a cab. Help Jenny."

She blinked, certain she was seeing things. Her fever must be higher than she realized for her to hallucinate this way. Obviously she'd stepped over the edge of reality.

Cars slowed to a crawl. Any number of people paused and pointed to the sign.

"Are you Jenny?" a bag lady who was nearly bent in half asked her. She wore a ragged wool coat. A worn shopping bag was draped over her forearm.

"Yes," Jenny whispered.

"I'm here to help you," the old woman proclaimed. "I'll get you that cab, now don't you worry none."

"I'm sick," Jenny whispered.

"Yes, I know, dear, now don't you fret. You'll be home soon enough." Holding Jenny by the arm, the old woman marched her out into the middle of midtown traffic and stood in front of the first yellow cab she spied.

The cabdriver stuck his head out the window and shouted angrily. Apparently he hadn't been in the country long, because his accent was so thick that it was nearly impossible to understand him.

"This is Jenny." The bag lady opened the cab door and stuck her head inside. "She's sick and needs to get home."

"I don't care if she's the president," the man inside the cab muttered, clenching his briefcase as if he expected the woman to snatch it from him. "I'm not giving up this cab. Driver," he instructed, "do something."

The driver twisted around and placed his hands over his ears. "Only been in America one day."