As she reached for Tom Fleischenschwetzer’s Visa, she realized something: the Hipster’s hand was no longer on hers. He was gone. His caramocha latte, his DFW book, his shoulder bag: gone. She ran outside to find the Vespa nowhere in sight. Somehow, nobody’d seen him go. Nobody knew where he went. And Becky, well, she never got to thank him.