Katie’s flinch is almost unnoticeable, just a trace of sadness beneath her face. “Well, I got off social media after I got sick. It was mostly just photos of me in hospitals anyway—and no one was liking those. I tried calling you a bunch, I left messages—that must’ve been two or three years ago—but I guess you got a new number. I was in a pretty bad place, I was just so lonely. My parents were the only support I had left.”

And it’s right then that I realize what a mistake it was to invite Katie into my apartment. The long tragedy story, the subtle but effective guilt trip—it’s a by-the-book setup. Soon she’s going to ask for money.

“The doctors said I had a one-in-fifteen chance of living, but look, here I am! Cancer-free for two years. Haven’t lost the weight, but honestly, it’s freeing. At least I won’t end up with another dickhead who’s only with me for my looks. And you know, even in the darkest moments, there’s hope. I’m adjuncting again, making interest payments on the medical bills, and I’ve met a nice guy.” She takes out her phone and shows me a picture. The man’s no winner. He’s round like her and balding. They’re standing in a pumpkin field, the sky behind them vibrant blue, the fields deep brown, both of them looking happy.

“Pablo’s a sweetheart. It’s great to have someone in your corner, you know? We moved into an apartment together, with access to a yard and berry bushes—oh right, almost forgot, I brought you a present.” She digs into her shoulder bag and hands me a small mason jar. “Jam from this summer’s blueberry crop.”

“Wow,” I say, waiting for her to hit me up for money, but the silence just stretches between us. Finally she gives me a smile. This is when the pitch comes.

“I hope you like it,” she says. “It’s really delicious.”