The third time Emerson and Greta met was at a house party in Brooklyn, as the year 2008 was about to gully in. Emerson was freshly 23, while Greta was seven months from 25 and growing impatient.

The second time the two young women had met had been at that same New Year’s Eve party, just one year before. But because Emerson was historically terrible with faces, and because Greta had been blackout drunk on boxed wine that year before, they now mistakenly attributed the vague familiarity of the other to a natural kinship of their souls, and the two became fast friends.

“Come with me for a smoke outside?” The cigarette was already between Greta’s lips.

“It’s freezing out! You’re crazy!”

Greta wrapped her fingers around Emerson’s arm and gave it a yank, bringing their foreheads together with the swift violence of a temporal catastrophe. “Am I crazy, or do I just have an awesome winter coat?”