Before I know it, the red flashing hand of doom is back and I’ve lost my chance. I hang back, frustrated and embarrassed. Why can’t I get my feet to move? A few more people gather close and I tense up, preparing for full body blows as they fence me in. Then, as one unit, all of them cross the street! Even though it clearly says DON’T WALK! Apparently, they all have death wishes. I should have grabbed a shirt corner, let them drag me along with them. It’s probably the only way I’ll make it to Café Crudité.

Two more green lights and the WALK sign comes back on. I force myself to dart, quick as I can, head down, barreling forward. Take that, mofos! Past the cheese shop and a Duane Reade and I’ve made it inside the café. I got off to a late start, but no one’s claimed the big table by the window, so the day is looking up. I promise myself I’ll be productive. I’ll spend the next six to eight hours toggling between my spec script and the Sweet Nothings portal to see if new clients have entered the system so I can nab one. The last four days I haven’t been quick enough on the draw, and my freelance checks are going to reflect it. I wonder if the other freelancers have installed some type of alert system and that’s how they’re able to beat me to the punch?

My stomach rumbles. All I have in my fridge right now are ketchup packets and half a bottle of Riesling, and I can’t spend my taxi money on an expensive quiche for breakfast, so it looks like another biscotti morning. (Café Crudité offers free “day-old baked goods” on a plate at the counter.) The place is mostly empty; just one person in front of me on line and no one behind. I watch in slow motion as the guy in front of me reaches his greedy hand straight for the free biscotti, aka My Breakfast. There are two left, enough for a sad, quasi-meal. I’m so hungry I feel saliva gathering in my cheeks.

I need the biscotti.

“Wait!” I bellow. It’s my “I’m in the hall” voice, weirdly resonant. I start over. “It’s just—those are mine, so . . .” I trail off in a normal voice.

The guy’s hand pauses in midair and he turns to look at me. He’s tall and tan, like the California dreams of my past, but there’s nothing easy, breezy, or ocean-sprayed about him. His dark hair sticks straight up, intense and angry, he wears hipster glasses he probably doesn’t need, and the not-quite-a-beard on his face can’t decide what it wants to be when it grows up. He looks like if Zayn Malik were a stressed-out dental student.