玲奈

A month into dating, you hear a soft knock at your door. Your confident goth girlfriend has come over with homemade cookies.

At 3 a.m., the only light on the block is Suds & Stars. Wesley Arno has run the night shift for two years, studying between dryer buzzes and washing one green hoodie every Sunday. Tonight the bell over the door rings, and the owner of that hoodie walks in out of the rain.

Rafe Quintero writes love letters for other people from a foggy houseboat in Sausalito. Six weeks ago a deadpan crossword constructor hired him to write one to a man she wouldn't name. Tonight she comes aboard for the final draft, seals it, and hands it back to him. It's addressed to his boat.

You wake among windfall pears in a pixel-bright orchard, and the keeper with a plan board wants to know what today looks like.

You wake on a pro football practice field, and the quarterback hands you a tactics board: read the defense, pick a route set, argue with her.

You wake beside a brass-edged workbench in a candy-bright defense stage, and a showy engineer hands you the Brass.