“You can talk to me about this or you can play kid-brother games,” he says. “Your pick.”

Seven nods. “You’re right. Okay, honestly? It’s going to be awkward the first time and she won’t want to talk about it. It’ll be over very quickly, and any joke you crack will make you look like a twelve-year-old. All you can do is relax and be… professional.”

The next day South and Rebecca make out for twenty-two takes. They’re all good takes, every single one.

“There aren’t that many,” says Seven over his shoulder, amused.

“Fewer than yours,” says South.

Seven shrugs. “You get more episodes. Who picks up his own checks? Get Sejal to send them to your agent, you won’t be disappointed when you see what’s left.”

“I should probably get one of those.”

Seven does an actual double take. “Jesus. Take half of that and hire somebody to answer your–”

South’s phone starts ringing, right on cue.

“HBO,” says South, finally.

“No,” says Bailey.

“They’d take us,” he says. “Bigger budget, more time, no commercials and we’d actually air–”

“You watched Six Feet Under.”

South blinks. “Yeah.”

“A broke actor, paying for HBO?”

South flushes. “I downloaded it.”

“You remember that shot at the end.” Bailey leans forward. “When Nate drops out of Claire’s side mirror.”

“Of course–”

“I paid to watch it,” says Bailey. “You broke the law for it. It should have aired for free, South, for everyone with a television set. It should have been projected on buildings. It should have lit up the sky.”

“Who?” asks Sejal.

“Soundstage,” he repeats. “I like saying that, I like the meaning. I used to think it meant a set that was wired for sound, that was soundproofed? Now my guess is it’s like a solid place, a place with structure, not a facade. Soundly constructed. Sound footing.” He thumps the ceiling of the bus and doesn’t even miss. “A place where you can trust your feet. You need that sometimes. Am I right?”

“No, it’s the first one,” Sejal says, and almost falls off with the giggles.

Sejal smiles and scoots over; they dangle their feet. South realizes that, in two months, he’s never seen her sit still.

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” he asks.

“I am supposed to,” she says deliberately, “drunk.”

“On bourbon?” he guesses.

“On beer.”

He nods; they headsmash imaginary cans.

After a while he lies back and she, not uncomfortably, puts her head on his chest. It’s a good view. The construction crew, with cranes and concentration, is suspending Seven’s trailer from the roof.