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1. Three folding tables, wobble-test the left leg with a knuckle. The laminate peels at the corner where a cigarette was stubbed out in 1998. Ash remains as black powder, packed into the groove. It smells of wet wool and old dust.

2. Eight chairs per table. Sit in each one to verify stability. The vinyl seats stick to the thighs, a cool suction that pulls away with a faint tear sound. A beige stain on seat four is not coffee. It does not lift with scrubbing. The stain absorbs light, turning the surface matte against the gloss elsewhere.

3. Two coffee urns, heated to two hundred degrees. The metal skin burns fingertips before judgment can form. Steam rises in a straight column, hitting the drop-ceiling tiles and dissolving into brown water rings already established. The liquid sloshes over the rim of cup nine, a dark bead that rolls across the table surface, picking up crumbs and ash, thickening into sludge.

4. Four candles in brass holders. The wax pools into shapeless geodes around the wicks. The heat makes the metal holders slippery with condensation from the urns’ steam. They sweat onto the wood beneath, leaving clear rings that vanish into grain. The flame flickers once in a draft no one can locate, then holds still.

5. Floor taped down for three feet of electrical cord. Duct tape tears with a sharp rip that echoes off the empty pews stacked against the back wall. The adhesive string pulls out, dangling from the floor like a vein. It sticks to shoe soles, pulling up fragments of carpet backing.

6. Sign on easel: “Nightly Dinner.” Marker bleeds through cheap cardstock. The ink is still wet, smeared by a thumbprint at the bottom right corner. Smudge confirmed. Weight balanced. Hall silent.