Phoebe uncurled her fingers, shook her legs. She spun around. Up in the rafters, the Starfighter’s galaxyfinder was suspended from wires. In the film the six interlocking circles were small enough to fit in the Starfighter’s palm, but here they were magnified by an order of ten. On the far wall was a curio cabinet. There was the Super 8 camera Ted’s father had given him before he died. The ratty old Yankees cap Ted had worn on location in the Salt Flats. Phoebe had tried to throw it in the washer at the motel in Westover, but each time she set it aside, caked in dust and sweat, he’d retrieved it. It was like he couldn’t think without it. On set he’d pull the brim down low over his face, drawing his own little curtain around himself, creating a haven to which he could retreat with his thoughts.

Where had that man gone? He’d been allergic to having his picture taken when Phoebe knew him, introverted, awkward. But everything in this room glorified him.

“Excuse me,” came a voice from behind.

Phoebe turned around to see a woman all in black, chopped hair, Joan Jett without the makeup.

“Hi. I think we’ve met before?” the woman said.

Phoebe had been afraid of running into old ghosts at the conference—there were a few names she recognized on the panels, and of course, there was Ted himself—but with over a thousand people registered, she figured she’d be lost in the crowd. Being stopped like this sent a charge through her. Suddenly she felt eight years old again, walking the school corridors alone, ready to show the principal her hall pass to prove she was allowed to be here.

“I’m sorry... I don’t—” she said.

“No, I’m sorry,” the woman said. “It was a long time ago. I was a PA at Omega. I’m Zanne. Zanne Klein.”

Zanne stuck out her hand, and Phoebe shook it.

“Phoebe Lee. Nice to meet—I mean, nice to see you.”

“There’s no reason for you to remember me, it was such a quick thing. But you were nice to me when I was having a bad day, and I always appreciated it.”

“Oh. I’m glad,” Phoebe said, relieved. Frankly, it didn’t sound like her. She’d been a ballbuster back in the day. She’d had to be. She was a young Korean woman on a mostly male crew, and Ted was a first-time director with no discipline. Phoebe was also her mother’s daughter, and she’d learned some things watching Umma every day at the grocery. No one paid attention to you unless they were, at least a little bit, afraid of you.