He did not recognize her. Which made sense, it had been ten years, and a lot had probably happened. Patricia should just keep moving through the party. Just move along, don’t try to have some kind of bullshit uncomfortable reunion. But she couldn’t help herself.

“Laurence?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. And then his eyes grew. “Patricia?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, cool. It’s good to, uh, see you again. How have you been?”

“I’ve been good. How are you doing?”

“I’m good too.” Long pause. Laurence shuffled and kneaded a square napkin. “So. You violate any laws of physics lately?”

“Ha ha. No, not really.” Patricia needed to get out of this conversation before it crushed the life out of her. “Anyway. Good running into you again.”

“Yeah.” Laurence looked around. “I should introduce you to my girlfriend, Serafina. She was here a second ago. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll just, uh, just find her.”

Laurence turned and plowed into the throng, looking for his girlfriend. Patricia wanted to get out of there, but she felt like she’d promised Laurence she wouldn’t leave this spot. She was bound to this place, as sure as if she’d been imprisoned inside a rock. Minutes passed and Laurence did not come back, and Patricia got more antsy

Why had she thought it would be a good idea to say hi to Laurence? It just brought up a lot of weird, painful memories of puberty and nearly losing herself, and it wasn’t like she needed more awkwardness in her life right now. She’d been feeling invincible, partly because she had just “saved” this UFO party, but now she felt sour, maybe even depressed. Patricia wasn’t naturally manic-depressive, but a big part of the instruction at Eltisley Maze had involved keeping two very different, maybe incompatible, states of mind at once—and in some ways, it was like being taught to be bipolar on purpose. People had a rough time of it, and nobody should be surprised that you wound up with people like Diantha. But Patricia was trying not to think about Diantha.

Patricia’s mood was crashing fast. Promise or no promise, she had to get out of here.

“Hey.” A guy was standing in front of Patricia. He had on a ridiculous waistcoat with purple fleur-de-lis on it, and a watch chain, plus puffy white sleeves. Wide sideburns and shoulder-length dreadlocks framed his face, which had a nice jawline and an easy smile. “You’re Patricia, right? I heard you were indirectly responsible for the amelioration of the atrocious dubthrash music. I’m Kevin.”

He had an accent that she couldn’t place—sort of Mid-Atlantic. Anglophile. His handshake was soft and encompassing, but not grippy. He was an animal lover, she could tell, who had pets, plural.