text: It's like something out of a movie— only way less romantic. It is damp and cold and dark and incredibly foggy, and we are shivering and trying to use the backside of "Fortitude" along with each other as wind block.
  
  And I can hear you, my friends, asking why we just didn't wait inside.
  
  And the answer is not a) because we are gluttons for punishment nor b) because that nice, icy cold blowy, wet is great for facials. No, the answer is c) because we are morons and the library is closed.
  
  And as we stamp and shiver in the dark, I realize Patience looks a lot less friendly after hours. Reminds me of the movie Scrooge; you know, when the doorknocker comes to life.
  
  You know they also riffed on that whole Ebenezer Scrooge thing in Scooby-Doo. I remember the episode was "The Fright Before Christmas," but I can't remember if the door knocker came alive. This lapse I am totally and unapologetically attributing to frozen brain cell syndrome. I would bet if I were sitting someplace warm with a cup of hot chocolate I would remember.
  
  Which is not a bad plan. I can go and find a place to buy two cups of hot chocolate and bring them back, improving both Imani's and my quality-of-life quotient immediately.
  
  However, because the universe occasionally loves mocking me, I turn to offer to make a cocoa run, and get hit with a shot of cold wet in the face, which both glues my eyes shut and coats my square black eyeglasses in insta-shmutz. A double layer of blindness, served cold. Ugh. And as I am trying to reach a dry piece of shirt so I can wipe them open— and off— Imani shoulders right around me, peers out, pauses for just a second and then, right into my exposed ear, comes the shriek.
  
  Imani's shriek, aside from potentially rendering me deaf, does let me connect the sound of a motorbike breaking through this frigid mist to the surprising motorbike now pulling up here. I squint, rather amazed, as said motorbike ignores the curb and pulls up right under a haloed streetlight, allowing its orange-red and white striping to glisten "just so." Even to my watery eyes, peering through mist-streaked frames, to say "it made an entrance" would be a severe understatement.
  
  This is off-the-charts noir. If Raymond Chandler himself had scripted it, it probably wouldn't have been half as brilliant.
  
  I thankfully toss my imaginary cup of cocoa right out the imaginary window, as Imani blows right by me, racing down the steps. The leather-clad driver slams down the kickstand, hops off the bike just in time to catch the flying Imani and pull her around in an enormous, powerful swirl of a hug.
  
  And thus it was not until after she set Imani back down that Chou Fen first took off her helmet, and I'm pretty sure my gasp would have been incredibly audible if they had been listening, which thankfully, they were not.
  
  Imani has talked about "Fen" or "Fenny" for years. I've even seen pictures of them together in what would be about the fifth grade. And she was what one would call "adorbs," this cute, petite Chinese girl, with stick-straight, shoulder-length hair, complete with short bangs, always dressed in uniform and always charmingly having some kind of problem with it: a rolled-down sock, a button gone missing.
  
  This person is not a Fen, and definitely not a Fenny. This person looks like she belongs fronting FanxyRed, the Chinese boy band that is actually made up of five women. So if I were marketing them, I think I'd call them the Chinese Boi Band. But before I can finish sorting out this unexpected vision, Imani is pulling Fen over and making introductions.
  
  "So Sid, you need to meet Ze— who you've heard me talk about for years. In our previous life, ze was better known as Chou Fen aka Fen. And now, she is well, Ze. Capital Z, small e."
  
  And with that, we all kind of stand there for a brief second, no one exactly certain how best to fix that one, when Imani, to her credit, just dives back in. "Or, I guess it would be ze is now Ze. I think that is the more right way to put that.
  
  "Ze, this is the infamous Sid. My best friend."
  
  "Hi, Sid. It's great to meet you." Ze reached out zir hand and started laughing. I believe we all know poker face is not exactly my strong suit. I'm pretty sure Ze is now feeling awash in my bewilderment, and being kind enough not to leave it hanging there.
  
  "Quick backstory. After Imani left school, I hung in there, somehow, for three more years. And then I couldn't take it anymore, so ..." Ze takes a second, zir nose scrunching up as though ze is debating the best way to say this, and then with an accompanying shrug, delivers a rather peppy, "I left. And I left Fen behind with the uniform. I chose the name Ze because it still sounded Chinese, and I have fun with the redundancy." Ze's voice drops down a pitch. "Bartender, I'll have one shot of irony with a twist." And again, that big smile. "So capital Ze or small ze or they, please."
  
  And before I can answer, Ze again extends zir hand. "And it is very nice to finally meet you. I've heard much about you over the years."
  
  Okay. So her name was Fen. But now she's Ze. And she uses the pronouns ze/they. So no she. No her. Ze. Or they. Gee, 'mani, thanks for the heads up here.
  
  I grab the gloved hand. "It's great to finally meet you, too."
  
  And now that we were done shivering our way through the formalities, it was time to move inside somewhere. Anywhere. I didn't really care. Coffee shop, diner, whatever either of them desired. Just as long as it came with a tenant who paid their heating bill.
  
  Which it turns out Ze does.
  
  And then some.
  
  As neither Imani's allowance nor mine exactly covers taking Lyfts everywhere we'd like to go, it takes us a bit of time to arrive at the address Ze gave us, which turns out to be a four-story building in Chelsea. We race our way in, pass through the first set of doors, and before we can even look at the intercom index for a name, we are buzzed through into the foyer area, where there's a very small, unoccupied front desk counter.
  
  "So, we're heading down there." Ze motions to a staircase behind the empty front counter. "This used to be a B and B, and my family bought it when it went on the market, partially for an investment and partially for office space."
  
  Ze continues to chat as we follow behind, the stairwell light coming on automatically as we approach. "But there's a studio apartment down here which we keep for personal use when we're in town."
  
  And it is suddenly incredibly surreal. This was Fenny, but now Fenny is Ze, and ze's not only here in New York, but has an apartment. And I would have yelled at Imani, but the truth is she is looking as dazed and confused as I am feeling. Compathy is us.
  
  If Ze noticed our shared state, ze was classy enough to pay it no mind.
  
  Wow. The downstairs door opens up to this surprisingly great space. It's basically one long room, broken visually into sections, with a small sitting area under the narrow window by the street side; a huge bookcase along one wall with a double-door closet on either side; and a small kitchen area with a table left of the entrance, which ends in another, larger bank of windows lining the back.
  
  "Okay, so Imani sent me the picture." As we glance about, Ze begins reciting and confirming what ze knows so far. "And as you guys said, it looks like a mah-jongg tile, but it isn't one. Or at least it isn't a traditional game tile. Look, without overloading you, there are generally 144 tiles in a game. They break down into Simple tiles, which are dots, characters and bamboo; Honor tiles, which are winds and dragons; and Bonus tiles, which are flowers and seasons."
  
  Ze pauses and motions for our jackets, which get tossed on a small table near the window. "None of these would be the picture you sent. Your picture is blurry not because of something with the screen shot, but because it's a very bad Photoshop overlay on a tile, or at least something to mimic a tile."
  
  "But that's not particularly interesting. People like to tag all sorts of things. In this case, the message is what's very curious." Ze stops, opens the refrigerator, and pulls out a beer. "Anyone else?"
  
  Before I can decline, I hear a delighted gasp from Imani. Ze laughs, and passes over a pastis, with a really affectionate and amused, "Some things never change." I decline the beer and the pastis. Drinking licorice is not in my wheelhouse, even though I have to say Mama did try. I do take a Coke.
  
  Drinks now in hand, Ze picks back up. "The message is actually the Chinese characters for SOS or help."
  
  Imani and I look over at each other. Talk about an unexpected answer.
  
  "Basically, someone is tagging an SOS."
  
  "You're sure."
  
  "Positive."
  
  And with that, the three of us just fall silent. I mean, what do you say? I look at them and say, "Okay. I'm confused. This makes even less sense now. Whoever this is already has all the toys, so why would he or she post 'help'? I mean why not just ask for it? Go into the global chat and say, hey bro, I need some help here?"
  
  "Don't know, but there's only one way we're going to find out." Ze scoops up our jackets and tosses them over onto a coffee table. "We get ourselves online and see if we can track them down."
  
  And with that, I reach into my bag to grab my laptop, while Ze crosses to the street side of the apartment and flings open the far closet doors, where it turns out there is a small office tucked inside, hiding a huge amount of computing equipment. There's a couple of Macs, two PCs, and in the center a gaming system. And we're not talking one of those off-the-rack-all-in-one-buy-your-own-copy-of-Word. Nope. This is custom, seriously gamer custom.
  
  At my whistle, Ze turns back and beams. "Awesome, isn't it? Powered by a Core i7-8700K six-core processor."
  
  "You built this?" Wowzerhole. I gape. Ze turns and boots.
  
  "Okay. The first thing we need to do is get off the public airwaves and set up a group channel. No one is on this channel unless we agree we are inviting them in."
  
  Smart.
  
  "User names?"
  
  And freeze. Personal power surge ...engage. Face flush ...achieved. This is that moment, the one where parents, teachers, and writers for teen magazines warn a person over and over about being very careful what you post. This is the moment a person should have something cool, something insanely classic. And not the now embarrassingly juvenile, teenage-brained "vixen2927. Small v."
  
  Ze pauses. Never looks up, but I do see the slight shake in zir head. It's one I know too well. It's the one that says, "too easy, not going there."