An assistant eventually escorted the children toward the wings for soundcheck. The Orpheum auditorium opened before them in a sweep of red seats and balconies lined with gold ornamentation. Without an audience, it seemed both larger and less frightening than it would later become. Ms. Johnson told the children to take their places and listen for the conductor, while she spoke quietly to a stage manager about the length of their two numbers.
Chase stood near the center of the stage in a cream-colored shirt, talking into his phone. His public smile appeared only when somebody approached carrying a camera, then vanished again the moment the camera turned away. Behind him, an enormous screen displayed photographs of smiling students, crowded classrooms, and cracked musical instruments. Zara recognized the photograph of Jefferson Elementary's choir room, though nobody had asked the children whether they minded having it projected above a ballroom full of wealthy donors.
The charity had promised half a million dollars toward rebuilding the school's music program. On paper, that amount could buy instruments, restore the small auditorium, replace the broken keyboard, and pay qualified teachers for several years. Ms. Johnson had explained carefully that a promise and a delivered grant were not the same thing, so nobody should start spending money that had not reached the district. The children mostly heard the wonderful number and imagined shiny new pianos.
Near the sound desk, Aaron Fields, Chase's touring engineer, was studying a tablet with the tired concentration of someone who had slept very little. He had been with the singer for five years, traveling through arenas, television studios, festivals, and private events. To most people, he was invisible; the audience heard only the result of his work, not the late nights spent making sure that result sounded effortless. Zara noticed that he kept one hand hovering over a particular channel whenever Chase approached the song's final bridge.
The orchestra rehearsed a familiar passage. Chase sang the verse of Higher Ground with a voice that was full, warm, and clearly trained. Zara recognized the talent immediately, and for a few moments she forgot everything else as she listened to the skill in his phrasing. A great voice could make even a tired room feel alert, and Chase knew exactly how to shape an ordinary lyric into something that sounded like a personal promise.
But the arrangement rose steadily, and his confidence changed as the melody climbed. His jaw stiffened, his shoulders lifted, and the sound began to thin. When he reached the entrance to the famous C6 phrase, his voice broke around A-sharp in the fifth octave, producing a strained, uneven note that disappeared almost at once. He stopped the musicians with an angry gesture.
"No," he said. "The support comes in earlier. Aaron, you've got me standing out there alone."