It was midnight on the third day. Many of the people had begun with full hearts and happy eyes and kept those attributes long into the night. One by one, however, they had dropped out, laughing and waving their hands, and settling into chairs around the dance floor, reaching for cups and chatting excitedly. But the music was too catchy and they found themselves pulled back in before they had drained even one glass. The musicians beamed at the success they were having and struck new chords, hitting the notes harder and faster.

The servers noticed it first: there were no empty cups to refill or plates to clear away. No one had eaten more than a bite or two or taken more than a sip. As one server looked up, he saw his coworkers swaying and tapping their feet to the beat, then twirling each other and laughing like it was a big joke. Their boss was an easy-going sort, but the servers were not to join in the party; they were on the clock. Even so, when they saw him clapping along with the rhythm, many of the servers joined in as well. Soon, no one was watching. Everyone was dancing.

The tunes went on like that for what seemed like hours. Breathless and ragged, the partygoers clapped at what seemed like a natural end to the music, only to find that the music was picking up into another song. Many inwardly felt that the musicians were overplaying their gig, but no one stepped off the dance floor. That was two days ago. The sun had rose on the party, showing the bride and groom in their finery, though both were sweating and exhausted. The other dancers looked upward at the sun, watching it rise high into the sky as the band played on, and still no one stopped. Fancy dresses still spun, shiny shoes still stomped, intricately curled and styled hair still bounced and came undone, flying free in the face of the unstoppable song.

Before the evening of that second day came, people were beyond complete exhaustion. The pace of the music never slackened, maintaining a fast beat that no one could keep up with—and yet they did. Even Grandma Evelyn, who was nearing ninety-three, kept going, though her breath was short and ragged and only the whites of her eyes showed. By this point, everyone knew each other’s faces; everyone had danced with everyone else several times, and the mindless exhaustion was etched irrevocably on every brow. Every brow, that is, except twelve. Spinning wildly and excitedly throughout the crowd were a dozen beautiful women. No two were alike: one was blonde, another redhaired; one short and thick, another tall and slim. Yet they all danced with the same aggressive exuberance and energy. The musicians, as ragged as the dancers, fingers openly bleeding, continued playing only for these twelve women, and their efforts were not unrewarded.

It was midnight on the third day. Many of the people had begun with full hearts and happy eyes. Now, many were quite literally dead on their feet, their eyes fallen and lungs no longer gasping for air. Still, the partygoers shuffled energetically to the discordant tune of the jig that echoed from the fraying strings of the splintered instruments. Still, the twelve women danced merrily, laughing gaily and swinging their new friends around and around as the band played on.