9:06 P.M.

           "I’vegotexactlytwentyminutesbeforeourmanagerhasatotalshitfit."BrookeVega’sraspyvoiceboomsinthehospital’snow-quietlobby.SothisisAdam’sidea:BrookeVega,theindie-musicgoddessandleadsingerofBikini.Inatrademarkpunkyglamoutfit—tonightit’sashortbubbleskirt,fishnets,highblackleatherboots,anartfullyripped-upShootingStarT-shirt,toppedoffwithavintagefurshrugandapairofblackJackieOglasses—shestandsoutinthehospitallobbylikeanostrichinachickencoop.She’ssurroundedbypeople:LizandSarah;MikeandFitzy,ShootingStar’srhythmguitaristandbassplayer,respectively,plusahandfulofPortlandhipsterswhoIvaguelyrecognize.Withhermagentahair,she’slikethesun,aroundwhichheradmiringplanetsrevolve.Adamislikeamoon,standingofftotheside,strokinghischin.Meanwhile,Kimlooksshell-shocked,likeabunchofMartiansjustenteredthebuilding.Ormaybeit’sbecauseKimworshipsBrookeVega.Infact,sodoesAdam.Asidefromme,thiswasoneofthefewthingstheyhadincommon.

           "I’llhaveyououtofhereinfifteen,"Adampromises,steppingintohergalaxy.

           Shestridestowardhim."Adam,baby,"shecroons."Howyouholdingup?"Brookeencircleshiminahugasiftheyareoldfriends,thoughIknowthattheyonlymetforthefirsttimetoday;justyesterdayAdamwassayinghownervoushewasaboutit.Butnowshe’shereactinglikehisbestfriend.That’sthepowerofthescene,Iguess.