Cover

Title Page

This book was informed and made more vibrant by the work of several visual artists. To that end, I’d like to dedicate it to:

BANKSY,

whose NYC residency coincided with the writing of the first draft

JEAN-MICHEL BASQUIAT,

whose ghost whispers in Green-Wood

JOHN LURIE,

on an island somewhere where nobody will find him

The wind came first, and with it brought the clouds that came between the city and the sky. The clouds were heavy and low, the color of a sinister night; more steel than sky. The steel slammed down into the skyline and turned off all its light. The wind whipped the clouds, it tore at street signs, it lofted the garbage cans, and it gave wings to anything that wasn’t nailed down, and to some things that were. The bridges swayed and broke, their cables popping like gunshots, huge chunks of concrete and metal falling down and down, splashing into the water and disappearing to the bottom of the river.

The rain came down in sheets. It was a wall, impenetrable, hitting all it reached with a sting of weight and gravity. The rain came sideways and down as it swirled in gusts of the feverish wind.

The sea, turbulent in the storm, began to surge into the New York Bight, filling it with the millions of tons of seawater the storm had brought along to the city like an unwelcome guest. As the bight filled, the water began to spill over. Tiles popped off of the Holland Tunnel as water forced its way through. The subway tunnels filled with salt water that corroded their already weakened tracks and pipes. The water surged up over the streets, over the tires of the cars parked there, into the basements of buildings, into the buildings’ lower floors, then up into the higher floors. The people left behind scrambled to carry their possessions higher and higher, up stairs, down hallways, up stairs again, until finally it became obvious that there would be no place high enough, that the waters would keep coming, unrelenting. A force.

Part One Makayla—November

PART ONE

MAKAYLA—NOVEMBER