Wild in the Field by Jennifer Greene

wasn’t packed—not on a midweek night—but the comedy cast was big-name popular, especially with teenage boys judging from the bulk of the audience. The boys, without asking or needing permission, charged down to the front row.
    â€œI can’t sit that close to the front,” Pete admitted quietly.
    â€œNeither can I. I can’t see, can’t hear, can’t take the crook in the neck either.”
    â€œSo just pick your choice of seat and I’ll follow behind you.”
    It was fine, she told herself again. It was embarrassing, how weird she’d become, how nervous she’d been about being in public again. She chose seats up high, where no one was blocking their view. A fat, dripping cola sat between them; their hands were filled with popcorn. Pete’s shoulder brushed hers and she could smell the soap he used, his skin, feel the nearness of him like a voltage charge in her pulse. But it was okay.
    She was so sure.
    And it was. For ten minutes. Maybe even fifteen.
    There was no single moment when that changed. Nothing specific to mark the instant when everything started going wrong. The comedy was the usual—an urban slapstick, a pair of cops without a brain between them, tripping over criminals and apologizing, arresting the innocent, that whole yadda yadda. Almost everyone in the audience got caught in some outright belly laughs. So did she.
    Or she thought she was laughing. It was just…she suddenly realized how dark the theater was. Pitch-dark. And one of the movie scenes started out on a quiet suburban street, with rain glistening on trees and making diamonds of the streetlights.
    Just like that night.
    Exactly like that night when she’d been walking home in her high heels with Robert. Her feet ached and she’d had too much wine but she was still laughing,laughing, high on marriage and Robert and life and her job and herself.
    Camille blinked, willing herself to concentrate on the movie, only suddenly the darkness wasn’t friendly but whispering with a thousand menacing shadows. Evil. How could anyone know where it was coming from? She’d seen the three young men walking toward them quite clearly, but it didn’t mean anything. They were on a city street; lots of people walked around at all hours. But that night, of course, it did mean something. She saw a glimpse of ugliness in the one boy’s eyes—she saw , and in that instant realized that she was trapped in a living nightmare. It happened so fast it was all too late, all too late, all too late. Her pulse slammed with panic; her whole body flushed in a cold sweat.
    â€œCam? Camille, what’s wrong?”
    She sensed Pete turning toward her, heard his immediate calming whisper, but the memories were firing at her like machine guns. She summoned the most normal voice she could. “Nothing, Pete. I just need to get up for a minute.”
    Actually, she needed to get completely out of there. Now. Yesterday. Sooner than yesterday. She crawled over Pete and bolted toward the stairs. She couldn’t catch her breath, as if all the air were trapped in her lungs. She heard her heart hammering desperately in her ears, tasted the sick nausea of fear, felt a choking sensation in her throat. She tripped, almost fell on the last stair, and then hurtled on, down the aisle, then into the sudden harsh artificial light, down that hall, then through the heavy metal doors and finally out, out, into the fresh night air.
    Only then did she realize that Pete was right behind her.

Six
    T he instant Pete realized she was upset, he took off after her, but it wasn’t that easy to catch up. She charged out of the dark theater so fast that he wasn’t positive which direction she’d gone. The rest rooms were tucked off to the left. The main lobby led to exit doors off to the right. And straight ahead was a long hall leading to other movies being shown and then a back exit.
    Pete jogged forward, then