He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “I usually take a Lyft.”

“Oh my God,” I say, bumping my shoulder into his. “What’s wrong with taking the subway? Surely after all our rides together, you’ve gotten a handle on how to swipe a MetroCard.”

“I mean, yeah,” Emmitt says, and some of the tension seems to ease from his expression. “But it’s easier with you by my side. New York City isn’t as intimidating when you’re with someone who knows it inside out.”

I snort. “You make me sound like some kind of New York City expert.”

He cocks his head. “Aren’t you?”

I start to protest, but... I realize I might be. Just a little. Living here my whole life, growing up on these very streets, I know the ins and outs.

I lean back in my seat, staring blankly at the subway map across from us. “Yeah. I suppose I am.”

I come to a stop in front of Green-Wood Cemetery, one of my favorite spots in Brooklyn, and look back at Emmitt. “So? Does it work?”

He doesn’t even respond, already raising his camera to his face, his eyes lit up as he looks around.

I smile, trailing behind him as he wanders through the cemetery. It was the first thing that came to mind when I thought of memory in terms of a location.

The cemetery consists of cathedral architecture, brilliant arches rising high above our heads, stone mausoleums with a thin layer of dust upon them, and iron statues watching us with disquieting eyes. It’s hauntingly beautiful.

“There are tours, I think,” I say, my gaze catching on some of the other tourists milling the area. “We can ask around.”

Emmitt shakes his head, adjusting the settings on his camera. “You’re the only tour guide I need.”

“All right, Casanova,” I say, rolling my eyes. At least we’re back to normal.

He shoots me a small grin and turns the camera on me. At this point, I’m used to it so I just ignore him, looking up at the elegantly designed arch coming up ahead instead.

As we traverse the city, I can’t help but feel a strange sense of nostalgia. These sights are only an hour’s commute right now, but when I’m in California, they’ll be three thousand miles away. I pull out my phone, recording my surroundings, even as an offbeat emptiness tugs at my chest.

It’s natural to feel sad, I tell myself. I’m saying goodbye to the only city I’ve ever known. It would be stranger if I didn’t feel some kind of loss.

Emmitt’s camera keeps clicking behind me, until a sudden beat of silence followed by a yelp. “Fuck.”

I turn on my heel, eyes wide, and then promptly burst into laughter.

There’s a frog on his head.

A frog.

On his head.