“There are a few more panels,” Jenna begins, but she is uncharacteristically cowed into silence when I whirl around to face her, tears that I didn’t give permission to fall rolling down my cheeks.

She steps forward, and I wonder if this is the beginning of a rare Jenna-initiated hug, but she stops before we’re touching.

“Maybe we should go back to the hotel and recharge,” she says. “Eat some overpriced mini-fridge ice cream.”

I’m relieved that it’s her idea to go. I can’t stand the thought of staying here and wandering from panel to panel while my heart does acrobatic maneuvers in my chest.

On the way out the sliding glass doors of the conference center, I drop my nicked wristband in the trash can.

chapter two

The long drive to the airport the next day is disastrously silent. I ask the Uber driver to roll the windows down because the air is cooler here than back home in Texas. I do my best to enjoy it, to find the magic in the dull heat of the sun dappling my cheeks, but I’m in no mood.

I’m thinking about the phrase “counting chickens before they hatch” and wondering how you’re supposed to find magic in the world and all that crap if you can’t have reasonable expectations of outcomes, when Jenna suddenly begins to roll up the window on her side of the car, forcing me to either close mine or have my eardrums burst from the pressure.

I’m about to protest, but she cuts me off with, “Don’t be angry.”

“A little late for that,” I say.

“I met N. E. Endsley,” she blurts.

In our four years of friendship, we’ve only had a handful of arguments—mostly about which inside joke originated where—but never a fight. The closest we’ve come was an intense row last year when Jenna insisted I attend the homecoming dance with the big group of single girls and I refused.

If this slow-boiling lava rising up my throat is any indication, our first fight will be the battle to end all wars.

“But the festival said he had to cancel,” I say, trying and failing to keep my voice even and calm and adult. “They said he was unable to attend.”

Jenna sighs. “I know. I saw him before he left.”

“You saw him from a distance, you mean,” I say. “You saw him getting into his private car or something is what you mean, right?”

Apparently, Jenna is incapable of starting a sentence without sighing, because she does it again before she says, “No. I met N. E. Endsley. I spoke with him while you were in the bathroom.”

My mouth doesn’t stop long enough for my brain to process this impossible information. “This is a joke, right? You’ve got to be joking.” I can hear my voice rising.