"Hello. This is a prepaid call from Cody Daniels, an inmate at the Travis County Correctional Facility. To accept this call, press 3."

After receiving this prerecorded message from a blocked number call, I obediently pressed 3, awash with relief. Cody hadn't been ignoring my texts after all—he was just in jail.

Cody not-his-real-last-name Daniels was an entrepreneur, let's say, who I'd met at a party while trying to purchase "pogs," let's call them, back before I'd gone to rehab for "pog addiction," let's call it. For reasons perhaps related to our pog transaction, I don't remember much about said party, but I do remember Cody: how I felt disarmed by his good looks; how he handed me a sweaty handful of pills (I mean, pogs) in a way I found charmingly unprofessional; how he grinned when he told me to take his number, "just in case I ever needed more pogs, not because he was trying to make it weird."

I was totally okay with it being weird, apparently, because I messaged Cody not three days later under the guise of needing to buy more pogs, kicking off a whirlwind few weeks of attending clubs, house music sets and 24-