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Evenings were long that time of year, and as Mason ran along the streets of her neighborhood, there were still plenty of people out and about. She headed for the park, passing an ice cream place with a line that stretched around the block. Later, she promised herself, a chocolate malted to undo all this effort. She increased her speed a little. She’d been a runner since her teens, trying to outpace her internal discomfort, never quite building up enough speed to do so. She still ran every day, sprints and distance. It was one of the few times her mind grew quiet.

Running through Pan Pacific Park, Mason passed people walking dogs, teenagers throwing Frisbees, people lying on the grass cuddling. She didn’t really look at anyone, though, just headed for the workout equipment the city had set up in the park. Four older guys and her, pumping their muscles on a warm city evening. She ended up getting into a pull-up contest and won twenty dollars. Score.

She checked her watch and headed out of the park. Just enough time to get that malted, especially now that she had the money to pay for it. Twenty minutes later she was finding her seat in a small basement room, greeting people she knew, nodding at strangers, sipping her malted and feeling herself relax fully for the first time that day.

The woman up front smiled around and cleared her throat. “Hello, everyone, let’s settle down. Welcome to the regular eight p.m. meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous.”

Mason settled deeper in her chair, and for the next hour didn’t think of Julia Mann or murder at all.

She came out of the meeting with the usual improved sense of serenity, albeit mixed with a fancy for a burger and fries.

Then her phone rang. She pulled it from her pocket and looked at the screen.

Mother of Dragons.

Shit .

She sighed and internally tested her peace and calm. She was feeling good. She answered the call.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Natasha! I can’t believe you answered. I’m forming a long-distance relationship with your voicemail.”

“I’m a busy woman.”

“No, you’re an avoidant with mother issues and oppositional defiant disorder.” Her mother’s voice opened up the same bag of mixed feelings it always did. A feeling of safety, combined with an awareness that there might be a hidden switchblade somewhere.

Mason sighed. “You love the labels, Mom.”

“You call them labels; I call them professional diagnoses.” Her mother was a psychiatrist.

“Tom-ay-to, tom-ah-to.” Mason took a breath. “What’s up?”

“Just wanted to check in, see how you were doing…Have you thought any more about what we talked about the other day?”

“I’m not going back to law school, Mom. It’s a waste of time and money. I don’t want to be a lawyer.”

“But you’re born for it. So smart. So argumentative.”

“I disagree.”

“Of course you do.”

“I’m a full grown-up now, Mom. Please let me live my life.”

“Well, a full grown-up who’s still being supported financially by her parents.”

There was a silence as Mason counted to ten. It was true, and it drove her crazy. It wasn’t every month, but it was often that she had to ask for a little extra help to make rent, or pay bills. The gig economy was just that, and sometimes the gigs dried up.

“I have a full-time job right now, actually, working for Julia Mann.”

“The actress? The one that went to jail?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Doing what?”

“Assisting. General duties, driving, that kind of thing.”

“Well, I can’t imagine that lasting very long. You’re not very good at taking orders, are you?”

More counting.

“It’s more collaborative than that, Mom.” Hopefully .

“We’ll see, I guess. If you don’t want to go back to law school then maybe you could become a teacher? Or a nurse? You’ve always been very practical.”

“You love to tell me what I should do, Mom, but I need to work it out for myself, OK?”

“OK, Mason, but your dad and I have talked about it, and we feel like you need to make a plan for your life. Or at least the next phase. We can’t keep propping you up forever.”

“I know, Mom. I’m doing my best. I’m staying sober, I’m working, I have friends, it’s all good.”

“Are you happy?”

Mason paused. “Happy is a lot to ask, Mom. I’m busy and I’m not drinking. It’s a good start.”

“I just think you’d be happy if you had a real career. You need to have a purpose, Mason. Everyone needs a purpose.”

“Is your purpose telling me what to do? Because you’re definitely leaning into it.” Mason knew she shouldn’t rise to her mother’s bait, but it was so fucking hard not to.

Her mom’s voice sharpened. “I’m your mother, Mason. I worry.”

“Well, please stop. I have to go, OK?”

“OK. Your dad sends his love.”

“I send mine back. Goodbye, Mom.”

“Goodbye, sweetie.”

Mason hung up and immediately called her sponsor.

Goddammit, why does life have to be so fucking…lifey?

Curled up in her pajamas later, Mason streamed The Codex . Sharing a bowl of butter-covered popcorn with Phil, her three-legged cat, she watched the much younger Julia Mann kicking some extensive butt. The old broad had moves, for sure, and the catsuit was definitely a high point. In one scene, Julia kicked a rifle from someone’s hand, then pulled a hidden gun from a hollow book and blew him away, all in one fluid motion. She looked it up: Jonathan had been only thirty when he made it, Julia just twenty-six. The official movie site had loads of production photos, and she found herself drawn to one of Jonathan, Julia and Tony Eckenridge, talking on set, deep in collaboration. She’d read all the rumors of love affairs on set, between Jonathan and one of the producers, between Jack Simon and the young actor David Paul (apparently the rule back then was you could only use two first names), and between Tony and all of them. David Paul was still around, in fact had gone on to a huge career, but Jack Simon she’d never heard of.

Mason finally fell asleep with her computer still open, and when she woke up, Phil was dozing on the warm keyboard, fourteen pages of C’s scrolling up the screen behind him. For “cat,” presumably.