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“Connor, you remember when I asked you if you were up for the job?”

“Yes.”

“Well, this is part of it.”

Jun furrowed his brows, trying to recall their conversation. “I thought all I had to do was just bring you to the appointment—”

Covey shook his head, tsking and wagging a finger at him as if he was a silly little child. “I don’t know where you got that idea, but that’s not what I was talking about at all.”

Jun’s mouth fell open. He replayed the conversation from the night they met. He was so sure that Covey had said the job was only driving him to the appointment. Had he missed something?

“This is the main part of our deal: Go in there, ask for my order—should be two boxes—and come back. If you don’t come out with them, or they’re broken”—he leaned close enough that Jun could count the fine lines around his light brown eyes—“then that’s the end of it. You can join the other guy at Costco.”

He pulled back with a grin. “Any questions?”

Jun shook his head, stomach souring. “No, sir.”

Covey didn’t trust him. This was a test. All relationships were a two-way street, personal or professional. Ruki had told him that when they were freshmen. Jun learned very quickly that the world didn’t run on Ruki’s kindness.

Jun was about to get out of the car when Covey called out to him.

“Oh, don’t forget this.” He raised the plastic bag with the pie. “The Owl’s payment, or he’ll have my balls cut off the next time he sees me.”

Jun’s stomach clenched, but he took the plastic bag without a word. He crossed the dirt yard to the front door, the mountain silence pressing in around him, and rang the bell. The worn-down white door behind the screen door opened, revealing a short girl with high pigtails. She stared at Jun.

She looked young—could’ve been a teenager or in her early twenties—Asian, though it was hard to tell with the lower half of her face hidden behind a cat mask with whiskers. Magenta and purple streaks highlighted her shiny black hair. Her super-short denim shorts peeked out from her oversized gray sweater.

“Who are you supposed to be?” she asked in a high-pitched voice.

Jun glanced back at the car. Covey looked up from his phone, smiled, and waved—though whether it was encouragement or dismissal, Jun couldn’t tell.

He turned back to the girl behind the screen. “I’m with Covey—”

“Oh!” the girl squealed. She pushed the door open, hinges screeching, and stepped aside to let him in. Her eyes crinkled, the neon blue and purple eyeshadow shimmering like a painted night sky. “What happened to Luis?”

Jun didn’t know how much to reveal about what really happened without making it sound ridiculous. “We threw him out. So Covey replaced him with me.”

She giggled. Her laugh reminded Jun of bubbly sparkling soda. “Good! He’s annoying anyway. My people don’t claim him.” She pointed at the plastic bag in his hands. “Is that… pumpkin pie? From Malibu Kitchen?”

Jun nodded, handing it over.

She let out a small, delighted gasp and snatched the bag from him. “I got your order in the back,” she said, motioning Jun to follow her.

“The fumes can get kinda strong, so let me know if you need a mask,” she said, walk-skipping down the hall.

Jun followed her up the creaky steps and down the hallway. A waft of sharp chemicals hit his nose, strong enough to make his eyes water. He glanced left at the kitchen. Dripping glass tubes were stacked on a drying rack and dirty plates piled in the sink. But the smell only got worse as they moved deeper into the house.

The room was furnished with two long plastic tables pushed together against the wall, forming one continuous surface. It looked like an industrial lab.

Every inch of the table was covered with plastic containers holding vials, caps, and small lab equipment Jun couldn’t name. Large shiny barrels lined up against the sliding windows to the backyard. Thin strips of sunlight cut through the gaps in the blinds, lighting up the dust that drifted over the barrel tops.

The girl set the plastic bag next to a laptop paused on a blurry YouTube recording of a dark concert. She pointed behind him. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back!”

The loveseat behind Jun had lost most of its leather. Peeling strips and wispy threads held together for dear life. Jun decided not to stress the couch even more when he turned to her. “Are you the Owl—”

The girl was already halfway into another room down the dark hallway, her voice low as if she was talking to someone Jun couldn’t see. Trying not to look like he was eavesdropping, Jun let his gaze drift to the laptop screen. To Jun’s surprise, the title of the YouTube caption was written mostly in Traditional Chinese. He peered closer at the title.

He blinked, making sure he wasn’t just hallucinating from the fumes. Zhang Chun Hua “My Funny Valentine” Live at Pipe Live Music 1994. He leaned closer, squinting at the thumbnail. The woman on screen had the same bobbed haircut he’d known his entire life, the same guitar resting in her lap. He had to be sure—