Cohen takes out my phone from my pants. “Passcode.” I mock gasp. “You’re not s’posed to give strangers your passcode. Did your parents teach you nothing?” “Guess not,” he says solemnly. “Oh, shit, are you, like, an orphan, and I rubbed your parents’ violent murders in your face?” “Violent murders? Your imagination is …” “Amazing.” “No, I’m not an orphan, but I’m trying to order you an Uber.” “Oh, then my passcode is my birthday. Good luuuck working that—” He punches it in. “Hey, how did you—” “Your twin brother is one of my best friends, dumbass.” He orders me an Uber and then slides my phone
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