At the Owl’s Nest, she danced in the middle of the crowd. Alone. The music pounded, and bodies pressed against her. She held her breath for a while, then let it go. No one groped her. No one spilled a drink on her shoes. She counted herself lucky. She usually ended up with both happening at the Owl’s Nest. A hand or two squeezing her ass. Cheap beer on her pants and shoes. At the end of the night, going home feeling and smelling like the floor.

Someone bumped against her. She ignored it. Kept dancing.

Go away, she thought. Just go away and leave me alone.

The heat made her hair stick to her neck. She peeled it away, kept dancing.

The person tapped her on the shoulder.

Shit.

She offered a glance, a sideways look she hoped conveyed no interest. Better yet, she hoped the glance conveyed contempt. Disdain. Disinterest.

When she saw who it was, she smiled.

“Oh, my God. Sophia.”

“Hey, girl.”

They hugged on the dance floor. Sophia’s blond hair hung loose, brushed across Madeline’s face. Even in the cramped space amid the sweaty bodies and spilled beer, Sophia’s hair smelled like a forest of lavender.

“Are you here with friends?” Sophia asked.

“Just me.”

“Cool. I was about to go outside. Do you want to come?” She leaned in. “I want to smoke. And I don’t want Zach to know.”

“Sure.”

Sophia took Madeline by the hand and started pressing through the crowd. It was always easier to get out than to come in. People moved out of the way when someone left, and then moved forward themselves, hoping to find that small pocket of space just vacated.

Sophia led them through the double glass doors and into the parking lot, the night air warm but better than the sauna inside the club. The sweat on Madeline’s body evaporated, the hairs on her arms standing up. They moved to the side of the building, to the parking lot, where a scattering of people stood around, smoking and drinking and talking. They weren’t supposed to bring beers outside, but everybody did. If a cop cruised by, everyone threw their beers into the bushes. At a dollar a pop, they were easy to replace.

Sophia dug in the pocket of her jeans and brought out a crumpled pack of Camel Lights. Madeline felt disappointed. When Sophia had said “smoke,” Madeline thought she’d meant weed, and her hopes rose. She couldn’t afford to buy it herself, but if someone offered . . .

Sophia struck a match and lit a cigarette behind her cupped hand. She blew out a plume of smoke.

“Can you believe I’m using matches? I’m like my papaw when he used to sit on the porch. Do you want one?”

“I’m cool.”