I think everything started going wrong when I decided to go to the hidden bathroom, the one on the second floor of the showroom’s hotel, the Marriott, a really magnificent building in the middle of downtown Atlanta. Pockets of vendors are spread out over the four hotels that make up the convention center, all connected by sidewalks and skybridges. My moms just happened to get a booth in the biggest showroom in the main hotel (they should, they’ve been going long enough). That’s how I know about the off-limits restroom. Technically it’s reserved for special guests, but there’s never any signs, so it really doesn’t count as breaking a rule. Anyway, I’d done my business and exited the stall to wash my hands, humming the Starfield theme that Milo got stuck in my head earlier, when I saw her:

Princess Amara.

I mean, Jessica Stone.

She was just standing there, and for a second I thought her eyes looked a little red, as if she’d been crying. Which was odd, because I really never imagined Jessica Stone crying about anything. Her life is perfect.

When she saw me, she looked away and began rummaging in her purse for her signature rosy lipstick. I guess I felt sorry for her—I don’t know—so I unpinned one of the buttons on my lanyard and held it out to her.

“Hi. I’m sorry for bothering you but I’m a really big fan,” I said, which was one hundred and twenty percent true. “And I just wanted to tell you that I loved the way you portrayed Princess Amara. It really, you know, struck a chord. So, thank you.”

I put the button in her hand: #SaveAmara.

It’s from the initiative I’d started to bring Princess Amara back for the Starfield sequel.

She looked down and she just…got really angry. “Save Amara?” She shoved the pin back into my hand. “She can’t save anyone—much less herself. She’s better off dead.”

Then she turned and retreated into a stall.

Honestly, I was too stunned to talk. I just pinned the button back onto my lanyard, checked my reflection in the mirror, and walked out.

I didn’t know what to think. Maybe I thought she’d take the pin. Slip it among the dregs of her Prada bag and leave, forgetting it until years later.

Instead, I tried to act as if her reaction wasn’t rude, or mean, or that I wasn’t beginning to feel just a little bit angry too.

I’d just pulled down my beanie when I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Jess?” a volunteer said, looking at me. “It’s almost time.”

“No, I’m not—” I pointed back to the bathroom just as the volunteer’s earpiece started to chatter. Panicking, she did the one thing that volunteers were absolutely not supposed to do.