“Oh my god, Cyrus, I don’t have the key,” I interject, raising my arms above my head like I’m walking through airport security. “If you still don’t believe me, you’re welcome to feel me up. Go on. Check my back pockets. See if the key is there.” He flushes. Turns away. “I—I do believe you,” he says. “We should look for the key. It can’t have hopped out of the room on its own.”
