Free A Week at the Lake by Wendy Wax

from Levi’s and T-shirts. His feet were typically laced into running shoes.
    â€œHi. I heard you were here.” He was of average height and build. Even his brown hair was of average length and color—as if unwilling to declare itself. He’d been a skit writer and cast member at Second City in Chicago before joining
SNL
’s “not ready for prime time players.”
As the World Churns
had grown out of several characters he’d created on his comedic journey.
    When his face was in repose, he looked like the boy next door. Or the nice-enough-looking guy you sat next to in math class through high school but whose name you’d forgotten as soon as you graduated. But his unremarkable features were made of rubber and could stretch into almost any expression or look—all of them funny.
    â€œI’m sorry about your friend,” he said now.
    â€œThanks.” Serena watched out of one eye as Lauri cracked up at something Wes said. She tensed as he laid a hand on her upper arm.
    â€œI saw the story on the news last night,” Ethan continued. “It looked like a pretty big pack of paparazzi out in front of Mount Sinai.”
    â€œYes. Way too big.” They’d had the car pick them up at the back of the hospital today and made Zoe duck down until they’d rounded the corner.
    â€œHow is she?”
    â€œNot good. Her head was hit pretty hard. She’s in intensive care.”
    â€œIs there anything I can do?” Ethan’s tone left no doubt that anything she asked for would be immediately taken care of. She’d learned the first year of the show not to sit at a table with him while sipping anything that might be spewed on others. But when he wasn’t trying to make you laugh, he was unfailingly polite and sincere.
    â€œNo, but I really appreciate you asking.” She tried to maintain eye contact, but couldn’t quite stop stealing peeks at the recording session.
    â€œWell, if you need more than the week off just let me know,” Ethan said. “We can record remotely if that would help. And I can probably cut your lines together from earlier shows if necessary.”
    â€œYou’re a good guy,” she said, accepting a hug, surprised at the warmth and strength in the sinewy arms and lean frame. “A real mensch.” She threw out one of her few Yiddish words.
    â€œWell, that’s high praise coming from a gorgeous shiksa like you,” he said in an exaggerated voice that could have belonged to Jackie Mason or any other borscht belt comedian. Still in character, he bussed her lustily on the cheek then slung an arm around her shoulders as he walked her to the control room door.
    Oddly comforted, she took a last peek through the plate glass window and was rewarded with a punch-in-the-gut view of Wes Harrison standing way too close to the adoring Lauri Strauss.
    Ethan Miller’s eyes were on her. Ethan was a mensch all right. Unlike Wes Harrison. Who was pretty much a cheater and a bastard in any accent, dialect, or language.

Seven

    W hen they drove past the front entrance of the hospital the next morning, the number of paparazzi had doubled. Like a cell that had divided and reproduced on its own. Mackenzie, who had often thought of Emma’s life as glamorous and exciting, watched them jostle for position, reminded that there was a dark underbelly to fame. The cab deposited them at the back entrance, where they took a freight elevator up to the neuro ICU.
    Rhonda, Emma’s lead nurse, sat at the computer outside Emma’s room staring at the monitor and jotting notes on a file. Rubber soles squeaked on the floor and there was a hum of low-pitched voices as white-coated doctors conferred. The patients’ families wore wrinkled clothing and shell-shocked expressions. Their tired, disbelieving eyes were rimmed in dark circles like the ones Mackenzie had seen in the mirror this morning.
    She’d tossed and turned for