Her eyes, however, were different. Her eyes were full of something here. It was visible in every single picture. Something vivid and wondrous and infinite.

Something I had never seen in Wynonna’s eyes before.

“And Sleeping Beauty arises,” said an older, weathered female voice. “Off to the arctic tundra, I see.”

I turned and discovered a woman in the hallway. She had the same prominent nose as Wynonna and her mom. But this woman was not her mom. She was too old—in her sixties, at least. That’s not to say that she wasn’t beautiful. She absolutely was. The woman held herself with a certain elegance, wearing a sweeping gray turtleneck poncho thingy (it looked much more sophisticated than it sounds), and her hair done in some sort of tousled pouf updo. All in all, very Meryl Streep.

I glanced down at myself and my less-than-elegant Adam Sandler cosplay. My mouth stammered until words came out. “I was… cold.”

“Oh, I do hope you’re not coming down with something,” she said. She turned and started back out the hallway, into what appeared to be the kitchen. Her voice bellowed down the hall, “The last thing I need is to get sick before my presentation!”

Slowly, I followed her out into the kitchen. The place was small but classy—stainless steel countertops with matching barstools, dark—almost black—mahogany cabinets, and a wide, third-story window view, slanting outward, overlooking downtown Carbondale.

The woman grabbed her keys and thermos off the counter, took a sip, and started for the door.

“Do me a favor, Nona,” said the woman. “If you are sick, please quarantine yourself. I have some NyQuil in my medicine cabinet. Knock yourself out—as literally as you please.”

With that, she walked out the door. She even went so far as to lock it behind her.

Well, that was interesting. Wynonna’s grandma, I assumed? If so, she was apparently one of those “classy grandmas”—the sort of grandma who used to be Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn.

I waited sixty seconds. Then exited behind her.

Wynonna’s house was actually a condo called the Lakes. It was a fancy affair with designer wool carpeting, crystal wall sconces, and a matching chandelier in the lobby. And boy, what a lobby! I shuffled across the black marble floor—past the pillars and art installations and chic-but-uncomfortable-looking chairs—attempting not to gawk.

“Have a good day, miss,” said the concierge.

I looked over my shoulder rather stupidly, then realized I was the “miss.” I forced a smile, waved awkwardly, and shuffled even faster toward the glass front doors.

I waited on the curb for about five minutes before my Subaru screeched around the corner on the left. It came to a slow, dramatic halt in front of me—just enough time for the driver’s-side window to roll down. I felt a little speechless as I watched my own face gape at me.