Jordan Hennessy stood on the dark sidewalk near Fenway Studios, her bag slung over her shoulder, looking sleek and urbane with her natural hair pulled back into a high ponytail, slim-shouldered leather jacket, orange crop top, sharp black leggings, subtle chevron-patterned flats.

Jordan Hennessy also sat behind the wheel of a thrumming Toyota Supra on the curb, looking camera-ready with huge hair, deep purple lips, a man’s bomber jacket, a deep purple corset, and heels that seemed difficult to operate a clutch with.

These two Jordan Hennessys shared identical septum rings, identical floral tattoos across their hands. Nearly identical floral tattoos around their throats.

But no one would mistake them for the same person.

“You didn’t call, bruv,” Jordan said.

“In.”

Jordan got in.

She had changed a little since Hennessy had seen her, but not so much that Hennessy couldn’t read her expression. It was a nuanced thing, this expression. Shock was the primary flavor. Then there was a note of relief. And then, just on the back of the tongue, wariness.

All of this was expected. What Hennessy hadn’t expected to see was joy. It had radiated from Jordan before she’d seen Hennessy. She’d been walking the sidewalk in the damned middle of the night with a grin on her face, a grin she kept trying to put away but kept escaping. Somehow Jordan had been living here in Boston away from Hennessy and she had not only been okay, but she’d been so okay that happiness was bursting out of her and she couldn’t stop anyone from being able to see it. Hennessy had been pulling out the Lace and Jordan had been happy.

Hennessy didn’t know what to do with this, so she started to prattle. She prattled as she sent the Supra down the street and Jordan put her bag on the floor by her feet like she always did. She prattled as she sent the Supra onto the highway and Jordan rolled up the window so that the increasing wind would stop beating her hair around. She prattled as they were joined by several other heavily muscled cars in the tunnels under Boston Harbor. She prattled as Jordan eyed the other cars and then put her seat belt on.

“How much notice did you give them?” Jordan asked. She wasn’t stupid. She recognized the Game when she saw it.

“Five hours,” Hennessy said. “On that mad nootropics investment banker Slack—do you remember that one? That means there is a very good chance statistically that one of these drivers is currently totally mashed on some completely unregulated South American plant by-product.”

They burst west out of Boston at a speed several ticks above proper. They had acquired quite a contingent of impressive cars. Flat cars, wide cars, flanking, waiting. The Game was getting ready to whisk Hennessy’s feelings away. It hadn’t yet. But it was going to.

It had to.