Adam stood by the door frame, baffled. He was wearing his old sneakers, a pair of worn-out blue jeans, and an inside-out black sweatshirt wet at the armpits, something that, until a moment ago, had shaken his amour propre. However, once he realized the diminished woman before him was Vera, he stopped worrying about his looks and instead worried about her. Adam held his breath, almost expecting her appearance to morph back to normal. Back to what it was. But it didn't.

He couldn't move. He was holding desperately to the image of his college friend, of Santiago's girlfriend, and the way they used to look together. Their hugs could convince even the skeptic that true love existed, and their kisses made everyone around them turn a shade of red reserved only for those embarrassed by public displays of affection (that were borderline soft-core).

As always, when he mulled over their lost friendship, sadness dug a pit in his stomach. At least the fire in her eyes is the same, he told himself. Although they hadn't exchanged words in over a decade, Adam was sure he still knew them better than anyone.

Four years old when her parents died, Vera was adopted by a young couple — Fidel and Paula Correa — in Barinas. They seemed so right for her during the adoption process that no one at the agency could have suspected Lieutenant Correa's enthusiasm for harsh punishments.

Fidel Correa believed in whipping children and women. Not in excess. Nothing against the law of God or man. He was a Catholic, after all. But just enough to create a thick callus around Vera's heart. This probably was why she didn't shed a tear when his step-dad shot himself in the bathroom one morning in front of her.

It hadn't all been bad, however. Vera said Fidel was 'a funny guy' most days; he'd talk nonstop for hours and tell the most amazing stories, spreading laughter like an infection at his parties. She once told Evelia he was loyal to a fault and would lend money to his neighbors and closed ones (even if this tore a broader hole in his own pockets).

"He showed us tough love with his buck belt, but also took great pride in being a protective father," Adam overheard her tell Evi during their last semester. "Which made the slew of debts he left behind a genuine surprise."

After Fidel's suicide, only Paula was heartbroken, but they were both feeling the very distinct pain of bankruptcy. While her step-mom hadn't died alongside her husband, she would have shared his coffin without giving it a second thought. And as fate would have it, soon after, she let herself die of sadness and got her wish.

Vera was alone, twice an orphan, a citizen of nowhere.

Her luck grew worse as the banks sunk their talons into her jugular and took everything Fidel had left them. By the time she was sixteen, and almost homeless, she had exploited a few of her step-dad connections, collected as many favors as possible, and used her own unique charm to get a job that paid well. Although Vera was far from the stereotypical Venezuelan bombshell, she still drew looks wherever she went. They would often joke that when she danced, she could straighten a gay man.

"It's like she knows the inner workings of the male mind," Santiago said one night at the disco, long ago.

"Bullshit," Ernest replied. "It has nothing to do with the brain. The way she moves only comes with experience. Lots."

Neither of them spoke about it after that, but they suspected Vera had been a call girl during the first few semesters of college. Like many pretty girls with small bank accounts and big dreams, perhaps she chose prostitution to keep the collectors off her back and give herself a fighting chance.

And that she did.

Vera became a brilliant psychologist, specialized in behavior modification, and got a full scholarship the same as the rest of their group in the Mission. They all had so much in common, including the year they were born.

She has to be thirty-three. The age of Christ, he thought. Then how is this possible?

Though many years had passed, these memories came rushing back to him as he kept his eyes on the floor. Something sank in his chest as he fought off his tears, desperate for her to carry the conversation.

"Don't I look fabulous?" she said. "Not a day over seventy!"

"Vera..."

"It's a genetic condition." She folded her arms over her sunken breasts. From the unusual pauses when she spoke, it was obvious breathing came hard to her. "Makes Botox my new soulmate."

"I am sorry," Adam didn't know what to say after that. Both remained silent for a while. Should he meet her eyes? Avoid looking at her again. Even though her long black dress, similar to Morticia Addams' (but without the cleavage), covered her entire body, it couldn't hide the saggy skin on her neck and the deep premature wrinkles on her face. Last time he'd seen Vera, she had dyed her hair blonde, had blue contact lenses, and wore red lipstick. So beautiful. Now she was ashen and hid her features under big-framed glasses. "What's this condition called?"

"Irony," she replied with a sad smile that gave her a more haggard appearance. "I swore I'd never be like Paula or Fidel, but it turns out it was my birth parents I should have worried about."

"Does Santi—"

They heard a soft noise behind him, then quiet.

"Did They follow you?"

"What? No." He wondered about the people who had seen him earlier. "I don't think so."

"Did you lead them here?" Sudden rage shook her voice.

"No! I mean... Thirty floors is a steep climb."

"You are not making any sense, but you didn't ask who. And that's progress!" She waved him in. "Close the door behind you."

He stepped inside and did as she asked.