Last night, Dallas wanted to go out. And because Tanya was worried about him, she went out with him. He had shown her the video of the woman in the barrel crashing over the waterfall, then surviving, waving to the news cameras from the back of the ambulance. She knows about those Parkers, understands things about them that even Dallas doesn’t. Understands the landscape of the world and where they stand in it, and where he stands in relation to them. How he shifts when they shift. He doesn’t see it, but she does. She knows how he feels about them, how on some level he is always thinking about a Parker. Sometimes it’s hard for her to know so much. So yeah, she drank. And she got angry, thinking about how much time she spent thinking about Dallas, and how little time he spent thinking about her. And so she hit the woman. It wasn’t fair.

This Parker is beautiful, like the other one, with long waves of strawberry-blond hair, skin pale and luminous. Tanya doesn’t even want to look at her. The three of them stand awkwardly just inside the door, the woman staring at Tanya, Tanya staring at the boy, the boy staring into space. No one says anything, which feels wrong in this kind of social situation.

“Well, come sit down,” she says, leading them into the apartment.

The woman scans the room, and Tanya does too, trying to see it the way that she must see it. Used furniture. Cracks in the walls. The wrong kind of floor. Dirty. Broken. Poor. Tanya shuffles some books into a neat little pile on the table, straightens a pillow on the armchair, kicks a dirty sock under the couch. She doesn’t know why she cares – this is Dallas’s apartment, not hers, although she is here most of the time. And they are poor. Dallas works at a coffee shop and Tanya goes to school, and while her tuition is paid for, she gives most of her monthly allowance to her brothers, who all have families of their own. Still, it might be nice to have some flowers, or some art on the walls.

“I’m looking for Dallas,” the woman says. “Is he here?”

“You’re the twin,” Tanya says, studying the woman’s face. Her nose doesn’t appear to be broken, which is good. She does have a bruise underneath her eye, which is bad. People will wonder how she got it. “Hit by some drunk Indian,” she’ll say. “Can you believe it?” And they will shake their heads and roll their eyes: What else is new.

“I’m Finn,” the woman says, rubbing the back of her neck with one hand.

Of course. To Tanya, Finn is the Other One, but Finn thinks of herself as the only one. “Dallas isn’t here,” Tanya says.