“What time is it?” Frankie said again. “How is there not a clock in this room?”

“I have a phone,” Ezra replied.

“So do I. Everyone does!” Frankie tutted. “It’s 1999. That doesn’t make you special.”

Ezra blew out his breath, and then they both cast about. Frankie patted down the bed; Ezra dropped to his knees looking on the floor. Frankie opened the closet, which was still full of a student’s belonging. Ezra found his down coat by the front door and checked the pockets.

“Where are our phones?” he said finally, when there were no corners to scour, no flat surfaces they might be overlooking.

“So we may be married and we’re missing our phones and we are in your old dorm room,” Frankie cried. “And I’m supposed to believe that you have no memory of this?”

“What? You think I, like, did this intentionally? Like . . . with drugs?”

Frankie made a face like she didn’t really think that because Ezra Jones had never even smoked a joint, but she had to start with a theory somewhere.

“Who’s to say this isn’t on you?” he jabbed back. “You and your . . .” He threw up his hands. “Rock-and-roll lifestyle.” He was immediately mortified and wished he could recant.

“You are, like, literally the last person in the world I would want to hook up with!” Frankie snapped, then quieted. “Besides, I mean, I would also never do that—drug you. For obvious moral reasons. I don’t need to drug someone to get them naked.” Then she squeezed her eyes closed and looked wobbly on her feet.

“Are you ok?” Ezra asked.

“I am obviously not.”

“I meant . . . I mean, not about all of this. But physically. Are you ok?”

“I have a blistering headache. Not a hangover headache, just that it feels like—” She reached up to touch the top of her head and assess.

But before she could say another word, the lock on the door clicked and the door swung open. A young woman, no taller than five feet and bundled in wool from tip to toes, appeared in front of them. Her eyes widened, and she froze.

Ezra had the bad luck of being the one standing within striking distance, so when she unfroze and screamed and reached for something that was buckled to her backpack, he was the one who was unfortunately blinded by her Mace.

FIVE

Frankie

TEN A.M.

Frankie did feel badly to see Ezra in such a state, even if she preferred not to see him at all. She rubbed her temples and tried to pray her headache away, but it felt selfish to worry about the pounding in her own head when he could barely crack open his eyes. She thought of that poor student, returning home from her walk of shame (Frankie didn’t know if she was still allowed to say that?) to find two strangers in her dorm room. She could hardly blame her for dousing Ezra, then fleeing the scene. Frankie had scrambled around and grabbed what she could: her Doc Martens, their jackets, her purse, before tugging Ezra, who was alternating between whimpers and hysteria, out into the dorm hallway, then down the steps to the frigid outside air. It occurred to her now that she was missing her Walkman. And Night Vixen’s early cuts.