A chorus of voices celebrate this victory and the impending likelihood of tits. But something in him responds to the tone of a commander: he straightens, nods. They're a unit now, linked by purpose.

You are acting as his partner, murmurs latent cop instinct. Don't let him down.

"Yessir," says Harry, warm and casual, and he goes to the door labeled Women. There is an urge to give a quiet little knock and then barge in; there is a competing urge to pound on the door with all the practiced force of a cop who has knocked on a lot of doors.

He does the cop knock. No one responds, so Harry turns to Flynn and gives an earnest, "Wish me luck!"

Then he strides into the women's locker room, and the door swings shut behind him.