Meanwhile, Kurt and Madeline were still together, paused somewhere on the timeline between lust and calamity. Kurt’s relationships always ended poorly: he was handsome enough to afford it. He liked to keep women at a distance, so that he could more easily discard them when he found one he liked better. But Madeline seemed different. She was always around the apartment, which she kept tidy and infused with mint-rosemary room spray. She was the kind of girl who stored bulk food in mason jars and drank fermented tea—the kind of girl Patty had always found slightly irritating. And yet, slowly but surely, Madeline had grown on her. She was smarter and funnier than Kurt’s other girlfriends. One afternoon, she’d gone around the apartment and glued a tiny pair of butt cheeks over every photograph of Kurt’s face. Kurt had kept the butt cheeks up for a week before finally taking them down. Even then, he did not throw them away but put them in a pile by the microwave.

Madeline knew about Patty’s diet and had, on several occasions, shown up at her door with offerings of coconut kale smoothies or chalky, sugar-free protein muffins. Once, she walked in on Patty watching YouTube videos and the two spent the rest of the afternoon in front of the computer, swapping their favorite clips. Patty showed Madeline her favorite slam poets and Madeline showed her videos of people performing superhuman feats: a guy climbing Half Dome without a rope, a woman deadlifting a baby elephant.

“How do people get this way?” Patty asked.

“Years and years of hard work,” Madeline said. “You know, you should try coming to the gym one day. We can do a workout together.”

“I can barely change a water cooler.”

Madeline waved a dismissive hand. “You don’t have to be strong to work out. That’s the whole point—it’s about building your body from the ground up. About tapping into your core potential.”

Patty figured she’d give it a shot. If nothing else, it would make Madeline happy.

The gym was called Hard Core Fitness and was essentially an old warehouse outfitted with dumbbells and blue gymnastic mats. In the back, a man who looked like Mr. Clean was carrying a pair of paint buckets up a metal staircase that led to nowhere.

“The buckets are filled with concrete,” Madeline explained. “We call it muscle painting.”

“That guy’s arms are bigger than my head.”

“That’s the end goal. Muscle burns calories even when you’re not exercising. Did you know that?”

Patty did not. She stood half-admiring, half-despising Mr. Clean as he carried out his Sisyphean task. It seemed unfair that men were given permission to grow unchecked while women were expected to dwindle down to their smallest possible form.

They started with a series of floor exercises: squats, push-ups, lunges. Madeline held Patty’s feet so that she could do sit-ups. They were about to start lifting when Patty noticed a trio of men at the front door, all of them dressed in basketball shorts and white V-necks.