From the back seat, Daisy directs us to the party, accidentally leading us astray three times, circling the Haight until we’re almost dizzy. When we finally arrive at our destination, it turns out we didn’t even need to bother with the Buick at all, since the place is only about five blocks over, and it takes as long to find a parking place as it would have if we’d walked.

“I used to ride in carriages,” I mutter, struggling into a narrow spot next to a dingy lamppost. “Nobody worries about parallel parking a fucking horse.”

At last, the Buick slides into the space, and we all file out. It’s not even nine o’clock, and I’m already exhausted.

The party’s got an open-door policy, and we walk right in. This place is bigger than Daisy’s, but it’s just as bare-bones. A few pieces of humdrum furniture—a stained sofa, a couple of rusted metal chairs, a coffee table loaded with rolling papers and tin cans for ashtrays. There are people everywhere, standing, sitting, leaning, smoke in the air, bottles of Southern Comfort passed around like golden collection plates.

I freeze up in the doorway, the urn quivering in my hands. I don’t know what to do here. I used to go to parties all the time, but not like this one, and besides, it’s been so long that I hardly remember how to speak to another human, let alone socialize.

But Bee’s ready for this. “Come on,” she whispers, and I follow her, the two of us moving along the perimeter of the room, closest to the open windows. We ask around, we ask everyone, but nobody recognizes the name of Jane Eyre. They’re more than eager to offer us suggestions, though.

“Up at the Presidio, there’s some chick named Jane.”

“No,” someone else chimes in. “That’s a June.”

“That Jane over on Clayton might be your girl.”

“She’s a Joan,” somebody corrects them.

This goes on for an hour, the minutes ticking away, as everyone tells us they can help, even though nobody can.

“What’s this Jane like anyhow?” one of the girls asks, and Bee takes a long moment to answer.

“She’s a little younger than me,” she says finally. “Quiet. Blond. British.”

That should give it away, but still, none of them recognize her. Meanwhile, the place just keeps on getting more crowded, people pushing through the front door, the back door, even a rickety side door. This is too much for Bee, too cramped.

Together, we retreat to the end of the room where I pry open a narrow window. Bee leans against it, inhaling the sticky summer air, breathing though she doesn’t need to.

“Thanks,” she says, giving me a strained smile. This isn’t going how she’d hoped.