“You need something that sets you apart. You absolutely have to be able to take it to the next level.”

“I can. I will.”

“That’s your role in this.” They stepped outside. The street was too bright, too loud. Traffic clamored. Music thumped from a bar on the corner, where the weekend was already under way. “My role is to find you work, assist you with career decisions, and negotiate contracts. I get paid on commission and my rate is ten percent.”

Kitty stopped walking—almost took a step backward. She looked at Milly carefully. Was that . . . an offer?

“I assume”—Milly thrust the headshots into Kitty’s hands—“you have digital copies of these?”

“Yes,” Kitty squeaked.

“Upload them to the Sequoia portal.” Milly acknowledged her Lyft driver, then gave Kitty a squinty smile and strutted away. “It’s not 1995 anymore.”

She took a cramped bus back to Silver Lake, churning through her emotions with every slow mile. There were flashes of optimism, nubs of possibility, but she kept returning to Milly’s jagged aura, her forty-five-second method of reducing dreams to ashes. It had not been the chilled, sociable get-together she had been hoping for, but had it been successful?

Her mama texted but Kitty wasn’t ready to respond. She curled over her phone and opened Facebook, but didn’t linger on her own page. Instead, she went to her second-most-visited profile, that of Courtney Caruso, a near-perfect American. She and her husband, architect Logan Caruso, owned a $600,000 home in Shively, Kentucky. They could afford more, but committed a portion of their income to community efforts. They were outspoken liberals, gun-control lobbyists, advocates for equality and civil rights. Courtney was presently spearheading a statewide campaign to increase the education budget in low-income areas.

Logan had beaten leukemia in 2011, but could no longer have children of his own. (He’d subsequently raised $474,000 for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.) Courtney’s profile picture was a professional shot of her and Logan (wearing matching sweaters), their fourteen-year-old biological daughter, Madison, and their adopted son.

His name was Levi, and he was six years old.

Kitty touched the boy in the photograph. She closed her eyes, drifted tearfully, but kept her fingers on the screen.

Passion Hour. The setting sun dressed the street in burnt orange, a touch of pink. The palms chattered busily. Kitty hovered at her window, lost in the moment, given to her thoughts. Before long, she stood in a dark, silent room, only realizing this when her phone buzzed to life and cast its blue light.

It was a text. No name, just a number she half recognized. Kitty read it, wondering if it might be from Milly. It wasn’t.

I sent a car 2 pick u up it’ll b there in 15