Chapter 1
In New York, it has been raining for thirteen days.
Thirteen days: unrelenting, ceaseless rain.
The subways fill like neglected bathtubs.
On TikTok, viral videos show cellar doors opening and releasing waves of water.
Low-lying streets—Wall, Canal—turn to wide rivers dredging an endless flow of dirt, branches, receipts, bottles, vapes, plastic THANK YOU FOR SHOPPING WITH US bags that were meant to be banned some time ago but never quite disappeared.
Eve is walking to Sheep Meadow in Central Park when she gets a call from Julian.
Why is she walking to Sheep Meadow? Because the loosely organized social media contingent insisting Eve is dead is holding a vigil there today, and her manager and her label have asked that she show her face.
They have agreed to once again send Junior as a bodyguard, and her manager has perkily reminded her that in this rain, a Starbucks cup of water is of no concern!
The rain is warm, thick, and relentless—the kind of rain that soaks you through so immediately and thoroughly that there is no point in fighting to stay dry.
Eve hates the idea of going to her own vigil, but the question “Is this random indie pop singer actually dead?” has reached something of a fever pitch, and according to Eve’s manager, a reporter from the Times will be there.
Instagrammers have been speculating wildly about whether the real Eve, or a fake Eve, or no Eves at all will show up to this vigil.
And then comes the call from Julian.
“Hey, Jules,” she says.
“Hey,” he says. “Where are you right now?”
She crests the hill and then she sees it: a swath of some hundred umbrellas in the center of the meadow, candles sputtering under cover, a flag with the album art from ski rat. “Going to my funeral. Where are you?”
“JFK. Going to Bozeman.”
Eve stops. “Danny?”
“I booked you a flight,” Julian says. “It’s a nightmare right now with the flooding. Can you get to LaGuardia in the next hour?”
“What? How are you already at the airport?”
“There was only one more seat on the early flight,” Julian says.
“And you took it?”
“Sorry, bud,” Julian says.
“Is Cal still alive?”
“Sounds like it, but not for much longer.”
“Danny told me he’d call if he wanted me to come out there. I don’t want to show up too soon.”
“Eve,” Julian says. “I love you, but when has Danny ever asked for help?”
“He said he wanted time with his dad before he died.”
“Yes,” Julian says. “And now we get on these very expensive red-eye flights to Montana so that we’re there for the after.”
Eve swallows. Nods once. “LaGuardia, you said?”
“Please just Uber there,” Julian says. “I know you’re weird about being driven by other people ever since Fletcher crashed your car, and I know you always fly out of JFK or Newark so you can take a train there, but please just get an Uber for Danny’s sake.”
“I’m not weird about being driven by other people,” Eve says. “Does everyone know that?”
“Literally all of us,” Julian says. “See you in Montana.”
Eve lowers her phone and stares down at the vigil, at the umbrellas and the candles and all the people who think she’s dead or who are so fascinated by the people who do. And what does it matter? Really, what did it ever matter? None of this has ever been real.
Eve hails a taxi.