“I’m sure you’re not the most deranged fan he’s ever seen,” said Touchstone as he fussed with his hair in the mirror. It’d been days, and I was still replaying the memory in my head. Ruminating was the technical term. I was really good at it.

“I just wish you’d asked him about the cliff-hanger,” Ros said, who was sitting beside me on the couch. Ros, it seemed, had had an okay week in their role as Hestia. Though they still didn’t have a job, Henry’s plants were all still alive, and they’d made us a few bare-bones meals: (gluten-free) macaroni and cheese, eggs on (gluten-free) toast, chickpeas frizzled in (gluten-free) olive oil. Both Ros and Touchstone were into food, and Ros was a pretty good cook, though cooking was one of the many hobbies they’d quit since their dad had left. Though they’d sort of been forced back into it—and though they’d also burned their hand—it was nice to see a side of their old self come through. Especially if it meant we went to bed with full bellies.

“Do you think the murder attempt on his brother was a dream sequence?” Ros asked. “Do you think he’s going to survive?”

“How am I going to survive with this memory in my head? I literally pumped my fist!” I cried.

“Oliver Teller’s the one with the fish eyes that you think is really good-looking, right?” said Touchstone.

“You don’t need to make this worse,” I told him. I pulled a blanket over my head, disappearing into the darkness.

“Celia, stop your moaning and put on your fanciest overalls,” Touchstone said. “We’re going out. All of us.”

“Are you going?” I asked Ros.

Ros considered this. They’d accidentally run their sweater vest through the dryer, but somehow, it’d improved the fit: It was shorter now, cropped, and hit them right at the smallest part of their waist. The effect was hard to look away from.

“I don’t think so,” they said. “I’m not really in a party mood.”

“If Ros isn’t going, I’m not going,” I said.

“Oh no. Absolutely not. Attendance is mandatory. I need backup for talking to this goat girl. Celia, don’t be a drama queen,” Touchstone said.

“Yeah, you know that’s Touch’s job,” said Ros, and Touch laughed good-naturedly, and Ros’s eyes sparkled, and they fussed with the burn on their hand and asked me if I had any gauze (I did) and began to wrap their oozing palm, and then Touch helped them cover the gauze with one of my bandannas and told Ros they looked like a sexy injured Boy Scout (they did), and I loved my friends so much it hurt.

“Come on,” Ros said, extending me their nonbandaged hand. “If I’m going, you’re going.”

“Maybe something exciting will happen,” said Touch.