“Won’t you join us?” I ask, gesturing to the table where Nazarin lounges. I can see the look of appreciation that Leylani and her client give him. They agree, and follow me to the table. Soon we’re joined by others: a host called Boa, and his client, a businessman named Graeme.

At first I’m nervous, but as more time passes and nobody stands up and proclaims me a fake, I gradually relax. I wouldn’t say I have fun—drinking SynthGin and chatting with strangers, playing the part of my sister to try and save her life, isn’t exactly my idea of a party. However, my confidence that I can pass for Tila is growing, just as Nazarin hoped. When I’m pretending to be my sister, the fear doesn’t paralyze me—Tila’s confidence seems to seep into me. I sit up straighter, I laugh more, even try my hand at flirting the way I’ve seen Tila do. While I still feel unsure about my skills at wrapping people around my finger, I can see the effect my new assurance has on others. If Taema was sitting here, awkward and disinterested, it would be a different story—but as Tila, they listen to me, make eye contact, respond and seem to enjoy my company.

When Leylani stands up to go to the ladies’ room, I go with her. Such a cliché, I think as we totter through the now-crowded club at the top of the TransAm Pyramid, going to the bathroom to try and bond with another girl.

Once the door of the employees-only bathroom shuts, Leylani’s work smile falls off her face. “Are you all right?” I ask, reaching out and touching her shoulder.

It undoes her. Her face crumples, and she starts to cry. I stare at her, a little lost. What would Tila do? Tila would be warm, both to offer comfort and to gather the information she wanted. I wrap my arms around the young woman, making soothing noises, stroking her silky dark hair. Leylani sobs against my neck, tears falling on my collarbone to trickle to my scar.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, rocking her gently back and forth. It feels strange to comfort a stranger, yet I find it calming too. I haven’t hugged or touched anyone since they tore Tila from my arms—unless you count sparring with Nazarin or pretending to be his hostess. It seems that I need the close contact almost as much as Leylani does.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, pulling away. She wipes her hand across her eyes. “Sorry, sorry, I’m being so silly.”

I pass her a plush, pink towel from the railing and she daubs her face and hiccups.

“You’re not being silly,” I say. “Not at all. Come on, Ley, tell me what’s wrong.”