And it wasn’t long before Sofia was nattering on about politics and the latest Twitter outrage, the guys talking sports, and, of course, Matt and Kala launching into a fierce debate about the best film directors. It was like they were at Purple Haze on a typical Friday night.

“M. Night Shyamalan doesn’t hold a candle to Jordan Peele,” Kala said.

Matt grunted. “I’ll give you that Peele revitalized the horror genre. Made it smart, weaving in social commentary. But I’ve got three words for you: The Sixth Sense.”

“I’ve got three for you: The Last Airbender. Horrible. And Peele doesn’t arrogantly give himself cameos in his own films.”

“It’s just fashionable to hate on M. Night.”

“You saying my views are just fashionable?” Kala held his stare as she took a gulp of beer. Her pretty eyes twinkled when she was angry.

“Yo, lighten up,” Ganesh said. “I want this stupid debate settled by the time I get back with another round.” He headed to the bar.

Kala seemed to realize she was, well, being Kala. Matt could’ve hugged her for it.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should’ve—”

He reached across the table and put his hand on hers. “If your views are ever fashionable, it’s because you started the fashion.”

Her eyes glistened as if she was going to say something about his family, something that was going to make them both cry. But she shook it off, realizing it was the last thing she should do.

“I just don’t get how you can like Shyamalan so much.”

Matt smiled again. She had a point, since most of the NYU film school snobs looked down on M. Night Shyamalan. But Matt loved Shyamalan’s movies because they were grounded in destiny—the protagonists unaware that everything in their lives had led up to a moment; that everything suddenly made sense; that they had a purpose in the universe.

Matt’s thoughts were interrupted by a commotion at the bar. He didn’t have a clear line of sight, but he saw the mop of curly hair bobbing around, and he knew.

“Shit,” he said, jumping from the stool and threading through the crowd. At the bar, he found Ganesh in a stare-down with three young men. Other patrons had stepped back, sensing trouble.

Matt put a hand on Ganesh’s shoulder, not acknowledging the other men. “Hey, what’s up?”

Ganesh’s jaw was jutted, hands balled into fists. Woo-jin and Curtis suddenly materialized next to Matt.

“Let’s go sit down,” Curtis said. “It’s not worth it.”

Eyeing Matt and his friends, one of the locals—he had cropped hair with a C-shaped scar on the side of his skull—said loudly to his own friends, “You hear the one about the black, the Chinaman, and the terrorist who walked into a bar?”

The three men burst into laughter.