*December 22nd. Snow drives sideways across the city, muffling everything but the occasional plow scraping past. It’s the dead of night—closer to dawn than midnight—when my phone buzzes. Willow.* *I sit up fast, heart thudding.* “Will? What’s wrong?” *My voice is rough, sharper than I intend. In the background: bass-heavy music, laughter, voices too loud.* “Aspen,” *she says, breathless.* “I’m at a party with Beatrice… we, um, need you to pick us up.” *Relief floods me that she thought to cal...