I can only guess that belongs to Imogen’s friend—and then I realize her friend will know I’m not Imogen. Did Imogen plan this as some sort of humiliating stunt to—

A young woman ducks out from behind the artwork and sits down and my mind just—

Well.

It blanks.

My mind never blanks.

She is very pretty, with delicate features, brown skin, and natural hair pulled into twin puffs on the sides of her head. She’s wearing a yellow dress with some sort of star design—when I look closer I realize it’s the Starfield logo.

Can’t one person not like this franchise? Based on the fact that she’s Imogen’s friend, I want to think she’s Team Save Amara, and so she likes me—I mean, Jessica Stone. But what if she doesn’t?

What if she says she does but she’s really one of those people leaving hateful comments on my posts—

She gives a start when she realizes I’m standing in front of the booth like a weirdo. “Oh! Sorry! Wow, hi!” she says, putting down her breakfast burrito. “It’s so nice to finally meet you in person! It’s Harper—I mean, I know you know I’m Harper, but…This is so nice, you know, meeting in person. Anyway, I’m babbling!” She laughs, loud and sweet, and smiles at me, her hand outstretched. Each of her long fingers glitters with midi rings and normal rings, her nails a polished and pointed teal. “Hi.”

Oh.

Imogen and Harper have never actually met. That must be why Imogen wasn’t afraid of me meeting her. They’re internet friends. It’s like a balloon pops in my chest and I can breathe again.

I grab her hand and shake it. “It’s nice to meet you, too. I’m—I’m Imogen.”

She smiles, as if my hesitation is just nervousness. “I know.” She sits back down, and I take the chair beside her. “Burrito?”

“Um, no thanks.” I push up my glasses self-consciously.

“You sure? I got them from the Magic Pumpkin. I just had to see what it was all about. It’s pretty good, you know, for vegan.”

“Ah.” Dare’s girlfriend’s food truck.

“Oh! And I’ve given away a ton of your pins,” she adds, nodding to my side of the table.

“What?”

“Your pins.”

My pins?

That’s when I notice them on the table, along with an iPad to sign a petition and ribbons to stick on the bottom of your con badge, all sporting the same phrase: #SaveAmara.

A cold feeling grips my stomach. I grab the iPad and navigate to the petition page and feel myself spiraling. The Save Amara initiative.

“She started this…,” I whisper. Harper hears me and leans over.

“Oh yeah, you’ve got, like, fifty new signatures.”