She wanted to be an actress, this she remembered for sure. What was the link between herself as a drama major at Ole Miss and the face looking at her from those photos, a face that would appear in Cosmopolitan, in Maxim, and then at Mount Sinai Beth Israel Hospital on a December night? It wasn’t that she had been voted Most Likely to Become Famous in high school in spite of marginal popularity and thankfully unrecorded displays of robot-dancing at socials. It wasn’t that she had been a prominent Ole Miss Tri-Delt despite only ever going to the House for the free black bean patties and salads she would eat by herself on the pigeon-infested patio. But somewhere along the way she must have started to want things, really want things. To want them like she was entitled. Progression: student, model, actress. In New York, she had given herself rigorous daily schedules in black Moleskine notebooks. Timetables, plans, weight goals. She’d do a photo shoot on Gansevoort in the morning, a shift at Fits to a Tea on the Upper West side in the afternoon, then ride all the way to Battery Park for acting classes and finally back to Astoria to sleep. The facts were simple enough; the feeling seemed impossible to retrace.