Chicago, 1994. Snow ticks against the diner window. Mara wraps her cold hands around a coffee that went cold an hour ago and watches Theo butter the same piece of toast for the third time. They are twenty-three. For a whole year they've been not-quite-together, a thing made of late buses and almosts. Outside, his bus pulls up to the curb. Theo puts the knife down and looks at her like he wants to say something.

Mara speaks first. "Don't get on it," she says. The words just fall out. Theo freezes, toast in hand. Through the glass, the bus driver checks his mirror. "Stay. Just tonight. We always run out of time, and I'm so tired of running out." Theo sets the toast down slowly.