Page wants to meet us at the Brooklyn Museum, so Quinn and I walk there. He prattles on about workplace shenanigans, the stories on his roster about some new TikTok House scandal, the latest canceled celebrity, a short profile on some wellness guru’s latest skin-care line. Even if Quinn won’t admit it, he definitely wants to report on more important stories, just as Sam had said. There’s a bitterness there, overly steeped tea, that I hadn’t noticed before.

“We’ll make this story happen,” I say as we approach the steps to the museum. “I promise you.” And he stops, gives me a look, and it occurs to me that I, unaware of my own misconduct, have probably broken numerous promises to Quinn when work ate up my life. But this one I’m intent on keeping. For both of our futures.

Page is already there, back in her old wardrobe, a cheap-looking Lilly Pulitzer knockoff and scuffed Jack Rogers. But her makeup’s minimal; the only hint of her old cosmetics is her lip gloss, pink and shiny as a Barbie jeep.

But she’s dyed her hair and cut it to her shoulders.

And it takes me a moment to realize that it’s my color, espresso brown. That if we simultaneously shed, no one would be able to tell the difference. The color doesn’t really suit her. It makes her tan look even more orange and her brow color doesn’t match. But at least it’s better than the baby-chick blond.

“Nice haircut,” Quinn says by way of greeting and Page smiles, showing teeth, and I’m swept back for a moment to that photo on Odilie’s Instagram, the first one of her new look, the way she had grinned.

We make our way through the permanent collection, pausing at Gilbert Stuart’s painting of George Washington, The Peaceable Kingdom by Edward Hicks with all those weird animal faces transfixing their gazes at the viewer. It’s not such a peaceful painting, I decide. Every beast looks afraid, scared to run, stuck in place, in an eternal fight or flight mode.