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.

Neither of them moves. The bus idles, then groans, then pulls away from the curb without Theo on it. He watches it shrink down the snowy street. "Well," he says quietly. "Guess I'm staying a while." Mara's heart kicks. A whole night, unplanned, just opened up between them.

"There's another bus at eleven," Theo says, almost hopeful, almost looking for an exit. Mara reaches over and turns his wrist so she can read his watch. "That's three hours," she says. "Three hours where you can't disappear on me. Let's use them."