Liza saw the red EXIT sign aglow and smiled. No one had thought to go to the other floors. Before David finished counting, she was out and down the stairs to the eighth floor. They would be forever looking for her. The eighth floor was some kind of tech start-up. The atmosphere was fun and inviting. Cool little cylindrical pods that looked like giant aspirin pills lay at the ready for any hardworking developer who wanted to catch a nap. Liza thought once again that she was in the wrong business. There were no naps in international studies or DJing. And there certainly wasn’t a fully stocked fridge. She found a desk and crawled underneath it and laid her head on the interior file cabinet. The next thing she heard was the door click open. Liza covered her mouth to keep from laughing. Has someone finally found me?

“Everyone’s drunk or sleeping. I thought I’d tell you before you hid here forever.”

Liza jumped at the sound of Dorsey’s voice. She saw those hand-stitched leather shoes stroll toward the desk, and she wanted to save herself the indignity of crawling out from under it. But he squatted down and tilted his head.

“You coming out?” Dorsey said.

“Yes,” she grumbled and crawled out from under the desk. Dorsey took Liza’s hand to help her up, and she slipped out of his grasp as soon as she steadied herself. He stood with a rigid and formal posture next to her.

“Why didn’t you play?” Liza searched for one of her soggy shoes.

“I told you I have no tolerance for games. It’s silly.”

“You sound one hundred and seven.”

Dorsey kicked the missing ballet flat to her from underneath the chair. “I’m an adult. At least thirty.”

“At least?” What kind of a loon didn’t know his age?

“My birth year is a little fuzzy.”

Liza slipped on the shoe. Thankfully they didn’t still squelch when she walked. “I had a friend who was adopted, and she got to choose her own birthday.”

“I did too.” Dorsey pointed to a nearby fancy bagel toaster in the kitchenette.

She waited for him to go on and gave up. “And what did you choose?”

“Uh, Thanksgiving. It was the holiday with the most food. Little did I know Thanksgiving changes every year.” He pointed to her ballet flats.

Liza laughed ungraciously. “So now your birthday is just on a dry-ass November twenty-fourth or something?” She slipped off the flats. It wasn’t a terrible idea to dry her flats over a bagel toaster. She was just surprised that it was his idea. What did he know of making do?

“Laugh all you want. I’ll hit Thanksgiving again someday.” He turned the toaster to its highest setting. Now he was actively avoiding looking at her rainbow-painted toes. “How old are you anyway? Nineteen, twenty?”