But $18.99 for a magazine is a luxury I can never quite convince myself I need when passing by a bookstore row of periodicals. “I won’t be distracted. The full order is to skin him, then eviscerate, then maim the limbs,” I say distractedly, thumbing through the pages as we walk. “Clip nails, remove the skin, remove entrails, and— Ooh, pweetty.”

Ming laughs and then fades into the background of the universe as I take in the new styles and bold colors currently flowing in from Detroit.

They’re purely aesthetic, mind you. Almost none of these could be worn without severely damaging someone’s spine, but high-fashion sneakers trickle down to the marketplace. The main brands will borrow a color here, an angle or pattern there, and pretty soon, we’ll be spotting them all across the subway.

I fall into pattern behind Ming and might just follow him off the edge of a cliff, my eyes glued to the Pavement, if he didn’t suddenly yell out words that deserve a trigger warning.

“Hey, there’s Cori. Cori! Cori!”

I quickly duck behind the nearest pillar before I even realize what I’m doing. Am I seriously hiding like some kind of second grader? Jeez—what is wrong with me these days?

By the time Ming backtracks my way, he looks like he’s fully ready to institutionalize me. “Um, dude?”

“What?” I cough. “Nothing. All good here. What’s up with you shouting her name like that? Preschool basics: Indoor Voices inside, Ming.”

“You’re hiding behind a pillar, you sitcom!”

He looks back toward Corinne—what I assume to be Corinne—like a very slow detective. Thank God, the bundle of hair at a water bottle fountain doesn’t appear to have spotted us.

“I’ve never seen you hide from a girl before. Or anyone, for that matter. Hell, I’ve seen you talk yourself out of detention. While chewing gum.”

Ming is right: something about Corinne has been playing with my source code.

“Wait, Halti. . . .” Ming stops walking. He looks at me with deep concern. “Do you like Cori?”

“I don’t like anyone,” I scoff. Ask Evie Hooper.

“Quit dodging the question,” Ming says knowingly. “Do you, like, want to go there?”

I feel myself swallowing painfully. “I legitimately . . . don’t know. She’s interesting.”

And cute. And weird. God, what the hell?

“You do! You like Corinne Troy,” Ming says, practically jumping up and down in excitement.

I sigh. “Would that just be the weirdest thing? If I did?” I genuinely ask.

Ming sighs and joins me behind the pillar, taking a long smug sip of his coffee. We both stand there, sipping our synthetic cups, backs tight against the concrete. To people walking by, it might look like two bros simply chilling, one of them not being on the verge of a personal breakdown.

“I mean, you’ve hung out with her too. She’s fun, right?”