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Persephone stared down at the fifteen-year-old beaming back at her from the magazine spread.

The Colorado-born SAB dancer, hair pulled into a bun as tight as the clamps around Persephone’s chest, was fea tured in a back issue of Pointe .

The girl, hailed as a prodigy, was lean and perfectly small-headed.

Her feet were straight, her legs were strong. And of

the same length. Persephone sighed. She wasn’t particularly masochistic, but sometimes she couldn’t help but pull out The

Stash, a store of old photos and show programs and ballet magazines and even a revered dancer’s worn shoes that she kept hidden

in a brown cardboard box marked Old Stuff shoved into the dark corner of her closet. Despite a handful of attempts, Persephone could never throw it out.

She was startled by the ringing of her cell, and when she saw Umed’s name, her heart simultaneously dropped and flipped. When

she answered, her agent skipped the niceties and cut to it.

Persephone stared blankly over the kitchen sink. She blinked. Drew a breath. Swallowed. Because this was real. “I have a callback?”

It was only the fourth one she’d ever gotten and the others hadn’t gone well, not to mention this callback was for one of

her biggest opportunities ever, a main character in an upcoming AMC television series: JANET (early 20s), gorgeous magician, irreverent and bitingly sarcastic but loyal.

“They didn’t have any specific notes,” Umed said, “so just go in there and have fun.”

Fun. Right. Her career hung in the balance but sure, I’ll just walk in there like this isn’t going to be the difference between me walking the red carpet at Cannes or serving

sushi a year from now.

“It’s a popular role. Everyone knows about it and they’ve cast a wide net, but I’ll have an intern get more information, see

how many you’re up against.”

Up against. Losing something you desperately wanted was agonizing, and losing it when it was within grasp was infinitely more painful

than losing it from a great distance. She fingered the Pointe magazine.

“They want to see you in two days. This time the producer and the director are going to be there.”

The producer and the director? This was happening. It was really happening.

“If the timing works for you, I’ll have it confirmed.”

For the love of Leonardo DiCaprio’s Oscar: “Please—confirm.”

“I’m Janet. I’m Janet.” Persephone said this to herself all morning before the callback, and she was saying it to herself

here at the casting office, a blue bungalow near the Paramount lot. She stood over the pedestal sink of the cramped bathroom

and whispered it into the mirror once more before returning to the six foldout chairs lining the wall to sit beside three

other aspiring Janets. The curvy, tanned brunette, possibly Latin, sat with her sides in one hand, foot whisking the air as

she stared blankly across the room; another girl, dark-skinned and model thin, ran her eyes across her pages, speed-muttering

her lines; the third woman, pale and petite with hunched shoulders, sat with her hands clasped, eyes closed, Zen.

The girls looked nothing like one another, and Persephone probably looked closest to the way she imagined book-version Janet

to be, but there was something they had in common: youth. There was a saying in Hollywood that all the juicy roles, the Oscar

contenders into which an actress could really sink her teeth, didn’t start rolling in until she hit her late forties and fifties,

like Judi Dench and Viola Davis and Helen Mirren. Until then you had to be young and hot. Ninety percent of the roles out

there were for every iteration of the Hot Girl, and even if your chops were potentially award-winning, they’d best be sexy,

too. There seemed to be a direct correlation between an actress’s ability to land a role and a Lanc?me ad, and that went for

older women, as well. There was plenty of room for them in the anti-aging skincare department so long as they looked preternaturally

untouched. It was anxiety inducing, that if an actress’s age didn’t start with a one, a two, or a five, she’d likely get shut

out of a role before casting even looked at the rest of her headshot.

The door to the casting room popped open and a Middle Eastern girl who looked all of fifteen grinned and called, “Susan,”

after which Aspiring Janet #1 stood and Persephone wished her luck before leaning back into her seat and doing her best not to be unnerved

by Aspiring Janet #2 and Aspiring Janet #3.

Ten minutes later, Persephone was standing before the camera, directly across from the producer and holy-crap-the-director.

Hardly the moment to tell him she’d seen almost every one of his movies.

He was practically beaming and actually shot an enthusiastic glance at the producer.

The casting agent (she’d seen Persephone before for two other roles, and Persephone hoped she’d either left the woman with a great impression or that the woman had forgotten about her entirely) sat in a folding chair next to the tripod, her assistant manning the camera.

I’m Janet. I’m Janet.

“Whenever you’re ready,” said the casting agent.

8

Ruben emerged from a swing door behind the Krispy Kreme counter with a tray of perfectly glazed, perfectly round donuts. It

was a slow night, and Ruben, his coworker Anna, John, and Persephone were the only souls at the shop. For the third time in

several minutes, John ran a tentative gaze over Persephone’s petite shoulders. He glanced at Ruben, who raised a brow. See something? John shook his head. No. It was difficult to tell if Ruben was relieved or disappointed. Probably a bit of both.

John hadn’t wanted to come tonight, but he was determined to take a more directed approach regarding testing the connection

between his recollections and Persephone’s presence. While in her close proximity, he would try his best to think hard about

the Grey House; Ruben, meanwhile, would see if he caught anything strange, while also mustering as much potentially existent

psychic energy as possible to send in her direction. As for Persephone, if the Grey Man showed up, she could at least keep

him from killing John.

As far as she was concerned, they were here tonight to get photographed doing something relatable.

For the first twenty minutes, paparazzi took pictures from outside the plate glass window, leaving them in peace only after John promised them great-looking shots from inside, including one pose that had John laughing at something Persephone said, which was, incidentally, her grocery list.

As Anna wiped down the far corner of the counter, Ruben set down the tray, and the donuts’ sweet aroma wafted up to tease

John’s nostrils. He felt a surprising twist in his gut— hunger , unadulterated and gnawing at his insides. He looked away, afraid of being powerless to quell such a human craving.

“A whole tray of donuts,” Persephone said. “Really?”

“I’m six foot four. Are you aware of the calories I burned through just saying this sentence?” Ruben sounded confident enough,

but his eyes darted shyly between her face and the empty shop.

Persephone leaned close. “The glaze is so perfect it’s freaky.”

“They look like they were born like this, right?”

John said, “Ruben’s involved in an obsessive love affair, and now he’s going to go to school to draw perfectly round, perfectly

glazed donuts.”

Persephone asked Ruben, “You’re going to art school?”

He made a face. “I never said that.”

She pulled out a tiny tube of Preparation H and dabbed a bit beneath her eyes. John hardly noticed anymore, but on seeing

Ruben’s expression, she said, “Go ahead.”

Ruben turned away, the tips of his brown ears darkening. “Not asking for further explanation.”

“I did a shoot for a Cosmo feature and the makeup artist told me it’d help me with my bags.”

Ruben studied her face. “You don’t have bags.”

“I do at six a.m. call times.”

John looked over at Anna, who averted her gaze and spun to wipe another section of the counter. “Speaking of call times,”

he said to Persephone, “any news on that front?”

She shook her head but could barely contain her smile. “Not yet. Last couple of weeks there’s been talk about switching directors

or something, so casting’s on hold. But apparently the list is very short. Like, me and three other girls short.”

Ruben smacked the counter and pointed to the donut tray. “Come on, you gotta eat one, now!”

Persephone shook her head and hands. “No jinx.”

“You’ve got the strength of Jersephone behind you!”

“Look, we had nothing to do with that. And anyway, it could have been worse: Prohn. ”

Ruben made a face.

“Last week, a casting assistant asked me if John was the reincarnation of John the Baptist. I’m telling you, John, when your

people come out of the woodwork, you might want to tuck them right back.”

He said, “You sound like Hannah.”

“That makes three smart people in your life.” She winked at Ruben, who smiled and ducked his head.

“Wouldn’t it be nuts,” he said, turning to John, “if you were, like, a serial killer or something? What if this is your chance

for redemption?”

“I’m only concerned with getting home.”

Ruben looked at Persephone pointedly. “Spoken like a cold-blooded psychopath.” He nudged the tray of donuts in her direction.

“Another sign? Not breaking for even one.”

John stared at the tray and felt his mouth water. He stole a glance at Persephone. Was this her doing, too?

“Krispy Kremes,” she said, “are dangerous any day, but I’d do it if I didn’t have a shoot in three.”

“Fancy,” Ruben said, pulling the tray back with a pinky. “Am I allowed to ask who with?”

She smiled self-consciously. “ Esquire . But it’s really small. A one-pager.” She said to John, “They’re going to do the Q&A while I’m in hair and makeup. William

said to think of some funny anecdote we haven’t shared with anyone yet, something cute and romantic? Plus something weird