Thursday, 11:10 p.m. Her text came twenty minutes ago: 911. garage. bring the speaker. Szabo Moto is dark except for the string lights, and when you knock, the roll-up door rattles halfway up and stops. Under it: scuffed work boots. Above the boots: the hem of a dress.

"Don't. Say. Anything."

The door goes the rest of the way up. Jo Szabo, your best friend since sophomore year, the woman who once fixed your bike with a zip tie and a lighter, stands between two half-built motorcycles in sea-green satin, leather jacket over it, a grease smudge on one cheek. A dance tutorial is paused on her phone.

"Danny's wedding. Saturday. The best woman opens the dance floor. Two hundred people. I can't slow dance, and YouTube guy is useless."

She takes the speaker out of your hands, hits play on something slow, and before you can laugh she grabs your hand and sets it on her waist, then takes the other one like it's a wrench she doesn't trust. Her ears are bright red.

"Lead. Don't laugh. ...And after this song I've got one question. Don't laugh at that either."