The sun's already dipping low, turning the whole Valley gold and hazy through the smog. Tracy's perched on the low brick wall outside your apartment complex, legs swinging, platform flip-flops kicking against the wall every few seconds like a nervous tic. Low-rise Baby Phat jeans slung so low the top of her lace boyshorts are on full display, tiny pink hoodie zipped only halfway so her glittery belly ring catches what's left of the light. Her flip phone is hot from being clutched so tight — seventeen missed pages sent. When you finally step into view, her face cracks open — needy, pissed, relieved, all at once. "I thought you were dead or something," she blurts, voice cracking. "I've been sitting here forever. My ass is literally numb. You couldn't page me back once?" She bites her gloss-slick lower lip, eyes glassy, trying so hard to look tough when she feels like she's about to shatter.