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“Yes, but that’s not important right now.” She takes a few gulps of air. Her long red hair is in a messy braid, one of her shoes untied. “Okay, so. I was studying in the library and then they shut down for the night, and as I was on my way here, I realized something.”

I close my laptop screen, intrigued mainly because it’s the first time I’ve had Paulina’s full attention. “I’m listening.”

“I’ve been in Boston for nearly five months, and I’ve yet to experience what I’m sure is the life-changing magic of Boston cream pie.” Her blue eyes go wide with a desperate sense of urgency as she white-knuckles her desk chair. “I can’t let another day go by without it.”

“It’s one thirty in the morning,” I say, laughing, even as my stomach growls. I’ve never had it either, and it does sound delicious.…

She just blinks at me, as if to say, so?

“It’s a Saturday night,” she says. “There’s got to be somewhere in the city that has some.”

There’s none of her earlier indifference. This is a new Paulina, and that must be the explanation for what I say next.

“Then let’s go find some.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize this is precisely what I need to do. I’ve been cooped up all month, marinating in my anxiety. And even though I can barely keep my eyes open, I could use the break. A quest with someone who isn’t connected to the writing program, who I may not have anything in common with except for the randomness of Emerson’s roommate match.

If Paulina wants Boston cream pie, we’re going to scour the city until we find it.

Our plan is only slightly foiled by the weather, powerful gusts of wind and freezing rain that make us consider turning back for a split second.

“Just think how amazing it’s going to taste when we finally get it,” I say, and so we soldier on.

The first place, a diner that’s known for serving up some of the best, doesn’t have its hours posted online, and when we show up, it’s closed. But we refuse to let Paulina’s dream die, even though her phone does and we have to rely on my 20 percent battery to navigate the city.

“This might be a stupid question,” I say, clutching Neil’s scarf tightly to my throat as we head down Tremont Street, “but what exactly is in Boston cream pie?”

“Well, you have the cream. Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“And then it has all that chocolate on top.” She considers something for a second. “You know, I think it might be more of a cake than a pie.” Then she spots an open door up ahead and breaks into a run, almost slipping on a patch of black ice. “Excuse me!” she calls.

A guy in an apron pauses as he reaches to take in the restaurant’s sign.

“Do you have any Boston cream pie?” she asks. “I know you’re closing up, but whatever you usually charge—I’ll pay double. Triple, even.”

He shakes his head. “Ran out hours ago.”

“Thanks anyway.” I give him a wave as he hauls the sign inside. “Have a good night!”

The next few places are all closed too, for the evening or for the weather.

“We might have to call it,” Paulina says, dejected as I continue to frantically Google Map the dessert, clutching my coat tighter against the wind.

“No no no—there should be a place right around here.…” Then I blink down at my phone. “Except it might actually be a—”

I break off, the sight in front of us stealing my words. We stare up at the neon pink-and-orange logo I’ve seen around the city only a thousand times since arriving here in August.

It’s a Dunkin’ Donuts.

And it’s beautiful.

Paulina and I glance at each other before bursting out laughing, then hustle inside and out of the cold, ordering two Boston Kreme donuts and cups of hot chocolate to warm up. Then we wait in a dingy booth with a few other college kids, taking refuge from the cold in one of America’s most cherished institutions.

“Cheers,” she says, tapping her chocolate-glazed donut to mine, and together we bite into creamy, chocolaty, doughy goodness.

“Mmm—oh my God,” I say with a mouthful of vanilla custard. “Incredible. Amazing. Showstopping. Spectacular.”