Sirens threaded through the noise of the street, their pitch climbing. The woman’s head lolled; her lips found a name. “Naomi,” she whispered, as if introducing herself to herself.

“Naomi,” Ethan repeated, because that name lived somewhere in his past where the air still smelled like champagne and orchids. A gala at the Broad. A dress the exact blue of LA’s clear nights. A conversation on a balcony about algorithms and art. An apology in a hotel lobby when the sun rose and the person who had been a human helium balloon all evening realized she had to go home to a life with rent. He had filed that night under Almost and moved on.

He hadn’t known anything was left in that file.

The paramedics arrived in a train of competence—gloves, questions, a cuff hissing air around Naomi’s arm. “Dehydration,” one said. “Maybe low blood sugar. You’re okay, ma’am. You’re okay.” The twins wouldn’t let go long enough for the team to lift the stretcher straps. Their hands were anchors; their voices were alarms.