I am on a stage but I already know I haven’t won. I can tell from the judges’ faces that my performance has been underwhelming. They wanted more wailing, more darkness. Maybe I should have tied a black scarf to my head. I sit there, wanting to understand why I’m here. When they finally announce their winner, she is a mother whose daughter has been killed in a mass shooting. I don’t blame the judges; I would have picked her, too. She stands, dazed as if she has no idea what she’s doing here. They hand her a trophy and she drops it. I wonder if the weight is too heavy. Or if the weight even registers in her despair. The judges don’t look too concerned. They prop the trophy on the podium and push her towards the microphone. She stares at the mic, as if trying to decipher what it is, what it does. After an extended silence a male judge steps up, side hugs her, and speaks into the mic: “She’s too bereft with grief! This is exactly why we chose her!” Everyone starts to give a standing ovation then holds up their phones to record videos of the unmoving mother. I stand, too. I don’t know what to do with my hands. Someone gives me champagne and I start to sip it, forgetting that I don’t drink. Another judge approaches me, smiles apologetically and says, “I’m really sorry. I was rooting for you.”