The woman, and sometimes a teenager who travels with them, runs the projectors when the others are gone. She is not very skilled with the balky, temperamental machines. Tonight, during a downpour, a fuse blows. A sudden bluish glare, a pop, and then no lights at all. She cannot fix it.
Rain drums against the tent and enters in streams through the sides.
In the dark, the wife s disembodied voice remarks to no one in particular, We are from Burgos. We set up in Castile last winter. It was cold but not very bad. Perhaps we will go back there, though there is little work. The rain slackens, and now we can hear it run off in streams and drip from the tent into puddles.