On a gray morning, beneath the clouded, cracked glass of The Original Pancake House, a brunch guest peers over his worn pink booth, glancing between someone he sees and an image on his phone. His mouth opens with surprise.

      "Am I crazy, or is that Bennie Jean?"

      "Hard to tell, but it does kinda look like her," muses his friend across the table.

      "She could be in town early for her show at the Civic tonight. But... what would she be doing here of all places, eating with some random girl?"

      A server brings a mimosa, a coffee, and a large stack of pancakes to Bennie and Some Random Girl's table. A wry smile crosses the latter's face.

      "I think your cover's blown, hotshot."

      Bennie exhales through her nose. "If I knew I'd get recognized, I'd have picked somewhere nicer."

      She puts a hand up, lazily attempting to obscure her face to the onlooker, while occasionally glancing towards him. "You know, Ash, it's crazy – there are so many amazing restaurants that I didn't even know existed. Like, real gourmet places. And now? I can just call and get a table whenever I want! Have you ever been to a real Michelin star restaurant? Next time I'm in town, I can get you a reservation at this place called Le Papillon. You have not had soup until you've tasted their artichoke soup. I'm not sure if I could join you for long, but–"

      Ash interrupts with a sigh. "I dunno, I think this place is alright. They do pan a good cake."

 

      "Ha. Ha ha. Ha." Bennie forces a grin, with lethargic finger guns. "Man, that feels like forever ago. Good times."

 

~ seven years ago ~

 

      "Ash you absolute twerp! Ah... why did that make me laugh so much? You almost made me lose my grip."

 

      "I'm just surprised that's not already a common expression. I mean, you can ‘pan' for gold, and I'm sure you can make a similar sort of motion while cooking something in a pan."

 

      The morning wind responded, buffeting their hoodies against the decrepit smokestack ladder. Ash's expression soured. "Bernadette. I mean it. I'd rather be there. Or anywhere else. Warmer, preferably. I'm cold and hungry. This trip was a mistake. I wanna go home."

 

      "Well, I drove, so have fun walking!"

 

      Ash started down the ladder, knuckles white with pressure.

 

      "You're really not backing out now, are you? We came all this way."

      She froze, but did not respond.

 

      "Come on, we've been over this. I need someone to hold the camera, or else we can't get that forced perspective with the sunrise! I'll take one of you afterwards, too!"

      "No, you don't. And you won't. It's not worth it."

      "Yes it is. Because this will be the best photo anyone has taken of the Santa Cruz Bay. Or at least, way better than that stupid photo that Lauren got in the yearbook."

      "Get over it. It wasn't that impressive," she said, beginning again down the ladder.

      After five or so seconds, Bernadette gritted her teeth and followed. "You just wasted this whole morning for the both of us. You're a terrible friend!"

 

 

      A server clears the plates from Bernadette and Ash's table.

      "Have you heard from Lauren lately?"

 

      "No, I haven't kept up–"

 

      "I heard that she just got divorced and went to rehab. That's insane, right?"

 

      "I... think that's unfortunate?"

      "Remember how stuck up she was? How much she had going for her? Those extravagant vacations, her graduation party in that mansion of a house? And look at her now! Who would've thought that she'd end up one way... and I'd end up the opposite?"

      At once the space across the table becomes a familiar rusty ladder, in the cold wind before dawn. "Life is strange, I guess."

 

"You know, I got to play this show at the Red Rocks in Colorado. And you know who I met backstage?"

 

Ash remembers just how it sounded. How it felt to hear it.

      "You know what? I don't care who it was!"

 

      "It was actually Ed Sheeran. In Colorado! Do you realize how —"

 

      "I said I don't care who it was. And you're not listening. You haven't listened this whole time! You're a terrible friend! Did you even want to catch up? You don't care how I've been! You just came back all this way to brag incessantly and then disappear again till your next tour!"

 

      "Oh yeah? You're just jealous, aren't you?"

      "Of what?"

 

      "Of me?"

 

      "That doesn't answer my question."

 

      "That I'm famous! Successful! That after this, I'm taking a limo back to my five-star hotel, maybe having caviar for lunch, and then going to see thousands of adoring fans?"

      "I never quite found the idea of caviar that appetizing –"

 

      "WHY CAN'T YOU JUST BE IMPRESSED LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE?!"

 

 

      Bernadette nearly galloped onto the small stage at the school auditorium, lugging a First Act guitar and harmonica in front of a single dusty microphone. "Like A Rolling Stone" was an odd choice for a talent show cover, though it did make a few of the older parents smile. As she began to play it, her voice was wobbly and unsure, punctuated between jabs of harmonica. Yet she felt an odd liberation, crooning "How does it feel? To be without a home? Like a complete unknown?"

 

      She took a bow, beaming, and trotted up to meet her parents. They politely applauded and grinned. "Wasn't that awesome?"

 

      "Don't get too big for your britches," chided her mother. "It's a four-chord song. Not that impressive."

 

      "Did you see that kid playing the Beethoven piece though?" her father remarked. He seemed to look straight over her head while addressing her mom. "Amazing, for that age. Maybe we should've got her piano lessons earlier."

 

      At this, her heart sank.

 

 

      That evening, in a packed, squirming theater, the house lights come on as the crowd deflates with a groan.

      "Attention, everyone. Due to unforeseen circumstances, tonight's show is canceled. A full refund will be provided. We apologize for the inconvenience."

 

      In a much quieter part of town, a black car drops Bernadette Jonson at her parents' doorstep.