“Oh.” I pat down my jeans and realize with a sudden jolt that I don’t have any money. Or ID. Nothing. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have at least my AmEx on me. “I, ah, I’m sorry, I don’t have any cash…”

“It’s free.”

“But I’m not that hungry—” My stomach growls and my cheeks get hot. I accept the pretzel. I can’t remember the last time I had one. I can’t remember the last time I ate in public without a storm of paparazzi on me. It feels surreal, a warm pretzel in one hand and a container of delicious plastic cheese in the other. I ask the man, “Is there any way to repay you?”

“Nah. I don’t need the money.” He looks out across the showroom. His face seems familiar, but I can’t place from where. With that god-awful peppery beard, I can’t tell if he’s homeless or cosplaying as a lumberjack. “You know, it feels pretty peaceful on this side of the convention.”

“I don’t understand these people.”

He laughs and puts his hands in his pockets. “Haven’t you ever loved something so much, you introduced it to your friends?”

I cock my head. “Does Groupon count?”

He laughs again. “Sure, but any TV shows? Video games? Movies?”

“I really liked Sailor Moon when I was little, but I grew out of it. These people,” I gesture to the crowds, “clearly haven’t grown up. Starfield. Stars Wars. Star Trek. Battlestar whatever. Firefly. I just—I think I’m a little too old for silly sci-fi shows.”

“Or,” the man says, no longer laughing, “you aren’t old enough. Perhaps, young miss, you’re still trying to find out who you are, and seeing these fans so adamant about what they love makes you feel like you’re missing out on something, but you’re too headstrong to admit that maybe you want to be a part of it, too.”

“Yeah, sure.” I slide up the wall to my feet and stubbornly push up my glasses. “Thanks for the pretzel, erm”—I look at his battered nametag—“Henry. I hope you get a lot of business. Bye now.” He gives me the Starfield salute. “Look to the stars!” he calls after me.

Which gives me an idea.

I whirl back around and ask him, “How many years have you been here?”

“Enough,” he answers carefully. “Why?”

I take out my phone, and he comes out from behind his pretzel cart. I show him the photo of the leaked script. “Do you recognize anything in the background?”

He frowns and strokes his beard. “No, but…” He leans closer and squints at the image. “You know, that kind of looks like Amara’s dress. The one in the exhibit.” He points to the blurry image of purple glitter in the top corner of the photo.

Holy shit. It does.