They were right all along.
Rhine grinned as she wrote down the words in what she called her “production notebook.” From the corner of her eye, she saw a white blur dash past her as she sat at the picnic table in her back yard
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Janet’s eyes widened when she saw the four-eyed, green-antennaed, maroon-skinned biped before her that only nominally resembled one of her students. They were waiting in the wings, fifteen minutes out from the start of the next act. She could already hear people shuffling back into the auditorium from intermission, greeted by sound checks from the kids who were manning the mixing desk.
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