“Rough night?” asked the bartender, a woman named Sage with silver rings on every finger. She was the only person in L.A. who called Lena by her first name without making it sound like a question.

She just sat there, letting the night be messy.

“Did it work?”

She was laughing. Actually laughing. Her head tipped back, her shoulders loose, her hand pressed to her chest like she was trying to hold the feeling in. She looked—there was no other word for it— alive .