Ledi pushed away the aggravating thoughts.

The emails were more than mere annoyances. They were a reminder of what she had lost. She was an adult now, making her way in the world and doing a damn good job at it, but part of her would always be the four-year-old hiding in the closet of an unfamiliar foster home unable to process that she’d never see her parents again.

She remembered her father’s dark skin and the way his smile seemed like it made the world turn. She remembered that her mother smelled of flowers and cocoa butter, and the way it felt to be squeezed tightly in her arms. But that was it, apart from a few shards of memories that sometimes came in dreams and splintered if she grasped them too tightly. She didn’t know who they were, or who she was, and each one of the emails reminded her of the heart of the matter: she was alone.

Gram-P squeaked and hurried to the side of the cage closest to her. He pressed his paw against it, as if sensing her sadness. She gave the glass an appreciative stroke with a fingertip and sighed.

It doesn’t get more pathetic than this, Ledi thought, pushing off of the windowsill and taking the few short steps that carried her to the kitchenette. Being comforted by Mus musculus.

Her phone vibrated but she ignored it, knowing it was either another annoying email or Portia texting to see if she’d changed her mind about meeting for drinks. Both possibilities held the same appeal for her, since Portia still considered The Hangover her template for a fun night out.

Ledi glanced at the phone, the glow from the screen catching her attention. Maybe she should go out. She hadn’t done anything fun in a while, and hanging with her best friend was healthier than talking to mice. But the thought of fake banter with strangers at a bar, or worse, Portia asking her what was wrong, made the decision for her. Talking about what was happening with Kreillig and with her spammer would make it too real, and Portia would of course try to fix things because Portia was invested in fixing everything that wasn’t herself.

Ledi reached for the freezer. She’d spend the night with Ben and Jerry, who didn’t ask questions and stayed off the sauce unless you were talking rum raisin. They wouldn’t drag her into any shenanigans, and they certainly wouldn’t judge her for indulging in the childish fantasy that maybe, just maybe, the scammer from Thesolo was telling her the truth.

LEDI AWOKE FROM dreams of Bonferroni correction rates to the sound of jackhammering. Her alarm hadn’t gone off yet, meaning it was way too early or too late for any kind of construction to be happening. She could call 311 to complain, but they wouldn’t do anything anyway. It was the placebo pill of emergency numbers. She pulled the pillow over her head.

The sound started up again just as she was drifting to sleep, and she realized it wasn’t outside. The pounding was coming from inside the house, so to speak.

“Ledi! I have to use the bathroom!” a familiar voice called outside her front door.

Oh fuck.

Portia. At Ledi’s door in the middle of the night instead of at her own Brooklyn apartment. Again.

Dammit. There goes my REM sleep.

She was so tired that she almost cried at the loss of precious sleep. She could pretend she wasn’t home, but doing that would have two possible outcomes: (1) one of her neighbors would be woken up instead, possibly resulting in a scene; (2) Portia would wander off, leaving Ledi to worry whether she’d made it home okay. Both outcomes resulted in loss of sleep, so opening the door would save her time and energy, and maybe a visit to the ER.

That’s what friends are for, right?

She crawled out of bed and undid the column of locks on the door. The distinct odor of old Irish pub smacked her in the nostrils when she opened the door, and she scrunched her nose.

“Are you okay?” she asked out of habit. It was the same thing she replied first thing in the morning after waking up to drunk texts. Portia looked okay, though; better than okay.

One day Ledi would do a case study on how her friend was always so pulled together, even at her hot messiest. Portia’s slim-fitting ivory pants only sported a few stains, and her tailored brown blouse was just wrinkled enough to be fashionable. Her earrings, necklace, and bracelets were a mix of refined classic and chunky boho chic that suited her perfectly. Her rust-gold ringlets were popping, her edges were flourishing, and her light brown skin was clear and smooth, apart from a smattering of freckles.

The only thing off was her eyes. They were full of the wariness that often arose after a few drinks, even when she was supposedly having fun. It was something that Ledi hadn’t been able to understand in all their years of friendship. She hadn’t been able to persuade Portia to talk to someone whose job it was to understand, either.

“I’m fine. I hope I’m not bothering you,” Portia said in a soft, only slightly slurred voice as she squinted into Ledi’s studio. “I just hadn’t seen you in a while, and I got worried when I was texting and calling and you didn’t respond. The after party wasn’t too far from here—well the after-after party, which was just me and the artist at his apartment—so I decided to stop by and see if you were still alive.”

Portia grinned and shrugged, and a bit of Ledi’s annoyance dissolved. A tiny bit. A microscopic bit. Ledi had been too busy to meet up for the last few weeks, despite Portia’s persistent requests for dinner, drinks, and invitations to various artsy events. And Portia had been worried—no one besides her had really worried about Ledi since she’d transitioned from foster care to living on her own. But showing up drunk on a friend’s doorstep in the middle of the night wasn’t cool, even if it was well-intentioned; and this wasn’t the first, or even the fifth time it had happened.