AND AFTER ALL that, to add massive insult to once-in-a-lifetime injury, who should I run into in the elevator of my building on the very morning I came home?

You guessed it.

The one-night-stand guy. The Weasel.

Fresh back from the hospital, I had walked in slow motion through the lobby of my building, holding my breath as faceless people wandered blithely around me.

I kept my eyes to the carpet, stepped gingerly through the elevator doors, and pressed the button to the top floor—my hair smelling of hospital shampoo and gathered in a careful, stitches-covering ponytail. I was trying with all my might not to accidentally knock that cork in my skull loose while also holding back a tsunami of life-altering realizations about the week I’d just been through … just as the Weasel himself catapulted through the closing doors and tossed his arms up in victory as he cleared them at the last second.

Let’s just say he wasn’t matching my fragile energy.

I couldn’t recognize his face now, of course. Or anything else about his rather nondescript self. What I did recognize—other than his terrible personality—was the red-and-white non-vintage vintage bowling jacket.

There couldn’t be more than one of those walking around.

Oh my god! The Weasel! I’d forgotten about the woman in his bed. I’d meant to go find his apartment that night and wake her up and get her the hell out of there—but in all the hubbub of, ya know, the brain surgery, I’d forgotten.

He wasn’t still holding her captive in there, was he?

I thought about asking.

But that’s when he turned to me, all friendly and breathless, and said, “Made it!” The way a nice person might talk to another nice person.

I kept my eyes down and edged away.

Really, pal? You think you can just wildly bad-mouth your one-night stands and also get to be a normal member of society?

Not on my watch, buddy.

I wasn’t going to be complicit in this nice-guy gaslighting. Also: What the hell? What adult just sprints through a building lobby willy-nilly like that? What if he’d slammed into me? What if I’d hit my head and the plug in my skull had popped like a champagne cork—and then it was right back to the hospital?

I wasn’t used to feeling fragile. And I definitely didn’t like it. So I glared at him, like, Thanks a lot for reminding me.

I could deduce that he was smiling, even despite his puzzle-piece face.

Those big teeth were pretty unmistakable.

How dare he?

It was frustrating beyond measure to look straight at a person and have no idea what he looked like. Especially since I really might have to pick him out of a lineup someday.

One of the tips Dr. Nicole had given me for coping with the sudden lack of faces in the world was to notice other things about people. Most of us used faces by default, she’d explained, but there were plenty of other details to notice. Height. Body shape. Hair. Gait.

“Gait?” I’d said, like that was a stretch.

“Everybody’s walk is a little different, once you start noticing,” Dr.

Nicole said, doubling down.

So I tried it on the Weasel. What did he have besides a face?

But I guess I wasn’t very good at this yet. All that really stood out was the bowling jacket—which had the name Joe embroidered vintage style across the chest. The rest? Shaggy hair falling aggressively over his forehead. General tallness. Thick-framed gray hipster glasses.

And I don’t know what else. Arms and legs, I guess. Shoulders? Feet? This was hard.

Normally, in elevator situations with strangers, even if you accidentally talk at the start, you settle back into standard elevator behavior pretty fast:

eyes averted, quiet, as much space as possible between bodies.

But I could feel the Weasel breaking the rules. Standing too close.

Trying to make eye contact.

Oh god. Had he thought I was checking him out just now?

I felt a sting of humiliation. That was scientific research, damn it!

I dropped my eyes straight to the floor and edged even farther away. Unmistakable we-don’t-know-each-other body language.

But maybe he didn’t speak that language? I could feel him studying me as we rose to the next floor. “Great sweatpants,” he said then, his voice still at maximum friendliness.

“Thank you,” I replied. Nice and curt. “Are they comfortable?”

What? Who cared? “Yes.”

He paused, and I thought my one-word answers had done their job. But then he revved back up. “How are you doing today?”

How was I doing? What kind of question was that? “I’m fine.”

“You look good,” he said, like he was somehow qualified to state that opinion.

A memory of his saying the words nothing but blubber popped into my head, and it was all I could do to push out two clipped syllables. “Thank you.”

“How’s your health?”

My health? Um. We weren’t going to talk about my health—or anything at all about me. I didn’t know anybody who lived in my building well enough for a conversation like this. Except possibly Mr. and Mrs. Kim, who lived on the ground floor.

I went on the offensive. “My health is fine. How is yours?”

“Oh, good, you know. Yeah, I was up all night. But that’s nothing new.”

Oh my god. What a monster. How many other women had he menaced since the last time I saw him?

When we reached the top floor, we both started for the doors at the same time, and when he realized the bottleneck, he gestured for me to go ahead with a Shakespearean bow.

Really? Now he was ruining Shakespeare?

I went ahead. Walking a little faster than I really wanted to, trying to leave him behind.

But he followed me. “Do you rent the place on the rooftop?” he asked then as I paused to work the door code to the rooftop stairwell.

Obviously. “Uh-huh,” I said.

“We’re neighbors,” he said, and gestured at the next closest door. “I’m right here. Just under you.”

Could he hear himself?

I nodded without looking up. No eye contact.

“I’d love to get a look at your place sometime,” he said then. “I’ve always wanted to see what it’s like up there.” Then he added, “Especially when you’re clomping around on my ceiling.”

Nope. No thanks. There was no way this wanker was ever going to “see what it’s like up there.”

I turned to face him, double-checking the name on his pocket.

“Look, Joe,” I said, poking my finger—hard—into the embroidered name on his jacket so he’d know I knew it, “I’m not going to be inviting you up to the rooftop.” Then in a tone that very unmistakably said I know what you did to that one-night stand and you’re a terrible person and we both know it, I added, “That’s not going to happen. Okay?”

That shocked him a little—which reminded me of something else Dr.

Nicole had said.

During our lengthy coping-skills session before I left the hospital, as she tried to argue that face blindness was not going to be as debilitating as I feared, she told me, among many other things, that even though I couldn’t see faces, I would still be able to read the emotions on them.

“So if someone is shocked or embarrassed or angry, you’ll still be able to tell,” she explained. “You won’t see it, but you’ll know it.”

“How is that possible?” I asked. “It’s two different brain systems.”

“But how can I read faces if I can’t see faces?”

“You can still see faces,” Dr. Nicole said. “There’s nothing wrong with your eyes. Your brain just doesn’t know how to put them together to show them to you right now.”

Her tone of voice was so reasonable. But nothing about this was reasonable.

“The faces aren’t gone,” Dr. Nicole tried again. “The faces are still there. And another part of your brain can read the emotions on them just

fine. Just like always.”

“I’ll have to trust you on that,” I’d said, not trusting her at all.

But it turned out—as it would often turn out with Dr. Nicole—she was right.

Because when I sharply rejected the Weasel’s invitation for me to invite him over, I shocked him. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it: that unintelligible face of his was surprised. And a smidge taken aback—most likely having lived his whole life as a complete jerk without encountering nearly enough repercussions. And he was now, at last, ready to withdraw all that inappropriate warmth.

Fine. Great.

He might have fooled that poor one-night stand of his. But he wasn’t fooling me.

I lowered my eyes to his jacket pocket, letting them rest on that cursive

Joe until he looked down at the word, too.

Much too nice a name.

I might have to be his neighbor. I might have to bump into him in the elevator. I might have to carry the memory of him saying the word blubber for the rest of my life …

But I did not have to invite him up to my hovel.

Joe the Weasel nodded and stepped back. “Got it.” And it sounded like he really did.