My mind wanders as Zach’s giving his Monday morning spiel, gesturing at a Powerpoint slide.

  I’m just hoping for a normal, typical, mundane week. Not one beginning with dead Russian oligarchs and ending with some weirdo putting together the Slumland Avengers before imagining being stalked by guys in yellow jackets.

  Was I imagining it?

  There was a guy in a yellow jacket, yes… and my mind ran with it because it still hadn’t absorbed what happened last week. Hell, I still haven’t.

  But if some guy like Ian can find me, even with the help of a couple chicks with unique sets of skills, couldn’t someone else, especially someone with the resources of a government behind him?

  Oh. Zach just called on me. “Radio package is almost set,” I’m saying. I never knew shit about radio before, but Harlan the radio guy had been laid off and, once again, Zach had pulled me aside and given me his lecture about doing more with less. “Just need signoffs from the suits and Mr. 99’s agency.”

  “You wound me,” Zach says. “I’m a suit.”

  “No, you’re a director,” Rachel advises him. “Suits are the next level up.”

  “Really?” Trey says. He’s the newest hire, unusually old for this line of work, although he doesn’t look 44 years old. “Zach, I assure you that you’re a suit.”

  “Not helping, Trey,” Zach tells him as Rach giggles. “I’ll put out another set of reminders that we need to roll before end of season. I’ll need your samples in my email, stat. Rachel, tell me about the season ticket blast.”

  Soon, I’m back at my desk, wondering vaguely what Ian even intends to accomplish. It’s not like there’s any actual threats where flying men or tiny women who can throw tanks or whatever it is Elena does could actually help. There’s no Thanos, no Frieza, no Legion of Doom. How can we stop actual terrible stuff like regional wars, political corruption, or climate change?

  As if he can read thoughts, a message from Ian pops up. Remember, Nick, ix-nay on the chatter about certain things. Don’t want that on some tech conglomerate’s servers somewhere. He uses this secure, end-to-end encrypted messaging app, but he still doesn’t trust it. Hell, I’m the same way, trusting some guy in a bodega over tech. He’d been firm on keeping chatter about our abilities on a strict face-to-face basis.

  Like that itself isn’t a suspicious thing to say, I reply.

  Naturally, he’s right. Whether or not I’m being trailed.

  With the radio package basically in stasis until it gets signatures, all I have to do is… boot next year’s spring training promos from scratch. I decide that the healthy thing to do is to procrastinate on that one, and wander over to Rachel’s desk; the place has an open-office layout. She’s in a polka dot dress today.

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  “Why didn’t you come out Saturday night?” I ask.

  “As invigorating as being reminded I’m ‘one of the boys’ is, I decided that catching up on my true crime pods was the better option,” she replies. “Why is it that some people are practically born to be abducted?” She’s got the season ticket holder graphic up on her laptop again.

  “There are scarier things to be born with,” I mutter, thinking back to Flo’s steel-like grip.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I… well, I met this super weird chick, and I—”

  “Why is it that you guys somehow fail the reverse Bechdel test?” she cuts in.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re like female movie characters written by bad male screenwriters, only in reverse. You guys can’t talk about anything but girls who you date or want to date.”

  “No… no we’re not—”

  “Like, maybe I want to talk about true crime sometime and not Carter’s girlfriend!” she’s now ranting, staring ahead. “Maybe I want to talk about, I don’t know, apartment prices and not finance bro or whatever chick you’re going on about now! Why don’t I have any girlfriends?!”

  “Hey, you can be friends with Vick’s girl Evelyn,” I point out. “You know who she’d talk about all day.”

  “Ugh, that’s somehow worse,” she moans.

  “What? You told her you love—”

  “I was being nice!” she yells. Trey turns around and glances at her.

  “Interesting. Well, if it makes you feel better, I definitely have things I wish I could share with the friends group too.”

  “That you have no game with girls? We already know.”

  “You were the one just saying we talk about girls too much,” I complain as I turn and sit back down at my desk. Glaring at the annoyingly blank template on my laptop screen, I stew, wondering if Rach is right. Given the rotating cast of romantic interests in all us guys’ lives, maybe she has a point.

  But we had such few common interests these days, I’m realizing.

  Angel can’t get enough of fantasy football but we haven’t had our own league in three years. Carter’s still a League of Legends addict on top of 2K, but the rest of us had fallen off long ago. None of them are even Yankees fans besides Rach.

  And my own hobby definitely can’t be shared with any of them.

  Me and the guys have been friends for at least 6 years, or since high school in the case of Vick. Have we really grown that far apart? Do we really have nothing to talk about anymore but girls? Is this why older people always complain about being lonely?

  My phone pings.

  Right. Then again… there’s that other “friends group,” not that it can be called that. I have no idea what to call it. They just better not call it any bullshit like the Avengers or Justice League.

  At least with them, I have something in common. Something batshit and magic, something we don’t dare reveal to anyone else.

  This weekend, my place, Ian’s texting. One more potential friend in New York. Talk more later.

  I don’t reply. Instead, I text Rachel, even though she’s like ten feet away.

  You’re right. I need other hobbies. Tell me more about pinup girls.

  She starts typing away at her laptop. If you’re serious, there’s this perfect podcast. Start with the one on Jayne Mansfield. I’ll send you the link.

  I may as well develop interests beyond baseball, or certain things I can’t mention to her, so that I don’t keep failing whatever test she was talking about.