Her senior year everything had come to a head. Once the fall fashion shows began everything became pressured, tightly wound. Abnormal Psychology was known as a GPA-buster, but Carmen had taken it anyway, and that fall the class was always the small thing making everything else impossible. She had been hectically absent for weeks, in Milan and Paris, then New York, then Milan and Paris again, transforming her life into a haze of emails to professors, of fitting into dresses, of sitting still while makeup was applied, of trying to find a place to print out case reports while tottering around in high heels on foreign streets in the liquid soup of foreign languages. In the back of the airplane the abnormal psych textbook pages blurred as she read about trichotillomania or pica or, with a grim survey of the other models, bulimia and anorexia. Her TA in Abnormal Psychology took pity on her. When she’d first seen him lounging at the front of the class she hadn’t given him a second thought—Josh was tall, with big ears and thick eyebrows, and he had a mild lisp when he spoke enthusiastically about schizotypal case studies, famous depressives, cognitive behavioral therapy. His TA hours at a coffee shop were sparsely attended, and one day Carmen just unloaded on him about how she wanted to apply to graduate school, the difficulties of modeling, being alone, everything. And Josh, the big-eared, smart, and kind goof that he was, had done his best to comfort this beautiful creature that had landed in his lap as neutrally as possible. Eventually she was coming to all his TA hours to chat straight through them, and when another student came Carmen would move to a different table and read until Josh was free again and then they would pick up on the exact sentence they left off on.