I get up from my perch on Dawn’s bed and wander into her hallway. “Jamie,” I whisper, “I’m going along with your landmine moment confrontation plan. I’ve sent that evil catfish email, I’ve mentally made my peace with what we’re doing, and now we have to see it through. You still haven’t confronted Mom, and I haven’t confronted Dad. Right? We haven’t gotten out of this the most important things we wanted from it.”

I pause to let her retort. She stays silent.

“I won’t let you down. I have a plan. That’s what I’m working on with Dawn.”

“I don’t look like you to Zarar,” Jamie says suddenly. “Maybe if I tell other people I’m Jamie, I’ll poof back to myself in front of them too.”

I huff a short laugh. “Oh, and that won’t be distracting at a barbecue—you individually pulling each guest aside and scarring them by exploding into a different person before their eyes. That’s not plausible.”

Jamie doesn’t respond.

“Wait, Zarar is there with you?”

“I ran into him in New York yesterday. Have you told anyone else?”

“No … just Dawn. She can see me, and I’m pretty sure this correlates with a line in the riddle.”

“Which line?”

“Tell just one, they’ll see the light,” I say. “We’ve both told one person.”

“I”—she stumbles—”can’t believe this is happening.”

“Jamie—”

The line goes dead.

53. Angst and Preparation

SIRI

September 4, Friday Night

California

The dough is ready. I’m working it flat while Dawn gives me a light-speed improv rundown.

Dawn snaps her fingers in front of my face. I refocus on her words.

“Siri. Try to stay present. The last team member just texted back—we’re all good to perform tomorrow at two. You can take a less active role and we’ll pull it off, but you need to get the fundamentals down.”

I look up from the dough. “Sorry, I’m anxious, but I’m trying to listen, I promise.”

Turns out I was right: Improv isn’t freeform like I previously imagined. There’s a pattern to it, a dance that all the performers know the outline to. They fill in the gaps as they go along.

I add the homemade sauce to the pie as Dawn finishes her thought and leans her elbows on the table. She watches me for a quiet moment.

“I never realized making a pizza was a yearlong event,” she comments cheekily.

I grin, littering it with all sorts of goodies: olives, tomatoes, basil, mushrooms, broccoli, and of course cheese.

“Just adding the final touches. I’m sorry. I didn’t completely register the time it would take when I read the recipe. I just wanted to make you a pizza,” I answer quietly.

She smiles. “That was very kind of you. I appreciate it.”