The woman on the velvet couch is hammering in another nail, this one above her navel. I look over at my mother, who is hyperventilating.

"We can leave," I say, trying not to sound worried. "Do you want to leave?"

The crowd "aaahs", the inch-long nail halfway through the woman's skin.

"No," my mother says, wiping a hand over her slick, pallid forehead.