“Really?” I said. It came out as a sort of gasping wheeze.

“We’ll go over there,” said Wynezra. “If he still hasn’t responded by the time we swap back, then we just knock the fuck on his door, Mormon-style.”

Wynezra’s face hardened ever so slightly. In that moment, I began to question the “friendly nature” of this drop-in visit.

“I want to talk to him as me.”

Roscoe’s apartment was in a gated community. The key code I had was an individual number that dialed Roscoe, at which point he would push a number on his phone, and that would open the gate.

But Roscoe wasn’t answering. Wynezra parked temporarily in front of the office. The moment a tenant drove through, she veered out and sped in behind them.

We waited about five minutes in the Subaru, parked directly in front of Roscoe’s building, listening intensely and very uncoolly to the smooth jams of Alt Nation on Sirius XM when—flash—we swapped.

Just like that, Wynonna was out the door, marching up to his building. She looked about as ready to talk as a contract killer.

“Wait,” I said—fumbling out of the driver’s-side door, shuffling after her. “Wait, wait, wait. Maybe we should talk this over first?”

Wynonna shook her head. “No. I already know everything I’m going to say.”

I followed Wynonna helplessly to Roscoe’s door. She knocked… um… fervently. It was less a “We’d like to share a message about the Book of Mormon” knock and more a “POLICE, OPEN UP” knock.

Roscoe opened up. He didn’t look happy.

Then he saw who it was.

He looked even less happy.

He smelled like hangover and self-loathing. His longish hair was stuck to one side of his face. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, khaki cargo shorts, and argyle socks with—god help us all—bright blue Crocs. All of this begged one’s undivided attention and horror. But the thing that ultimately grabbed my attention was the inside of his apartment—the split second I saw of it—before he slipped outside and closed the door behind him.

Boxes.

Lots of boxes. Most of them looked like they were filled, taped shut, and stacked in cardboard pillars.

“Whoa, wait,” I said. “Are you moving already?”

Roscoe turned his head. Looked at me like I was a complete stranger. I realized this was the first time he had seen me as myself.

“Um, I’m Ezra,” I said. And then, as if I needed to clarify further, “The real Ezra.”

Roscoe absorbed this slowly—about a thousand times slower than normal human information absorption. Nodded even slower.

“Are you moving?” I repeated.

Roscoe didn’t even respond. Didn’t even acknowledge that I had asked a question.

Looked at Wynonna.

“This isn’t a great time,” he said. “Sorry.”