He’d wandered for quite a while after stepping off the train, and found himself ducking into a small café, desperate for coffee. It never occurred to him that he’d be able to find Theo (even if he had fully admitted to himself that he was looking for him) on the first morning of the very first day—it was as if the universe decided to give him what he had wanted, but without any adequate preparation. He wondered if his life was just destined to be him, bumbling along, finding trouble at the most inopportune of moments.

God, his hair was probably a mess. Jack stood up straight and caught his reflection in a shop window. “Fuck.”

He tried, without success, to flatten his hair.

He slumped. Oh well.

Why on earth had he decided to do this? He shook his head to clear it and decided that his little—this odd turn of events—was a problem for a different Jack. Some later version of himself who’d maybe gotten a few more hours of sleep. And breakfast.

It was still early, barely anyone passing him on the sidewalk. He stuck his left hand in his pocket and used the right to lift his suitcase again, and realized that if he didn’t want to sleep on the street—in an unfamiliar city, no less—he’d have to find someplace to stay.

God bless that check from Franklin.

So he walked.

He’d noticed very little, stumbling to the café, and noticed nothing at all after seeing Theo’s shining blond hair. But now he took stock of the city, just on the edge of wakefulness. The air was fresh, with a hint of damp, like a cool bath on a hot day. It felt like a city that came alive at night—he noticed pub crammed up next to pub, boxes of red flowers lining gold-painted windows. White and purple weeds bloomed between the gray stones of a low wall, a river running through, down past a hill and deeper into the city. And he still had that sense of something magical, something bigger than himself, a voice which whispered, Yes.

This is where you are supposed to be.

He crossed the river, took a turn—entirely on some unknown instinct—and found himself in front of a large Victorian building. The Metropole Hotel.

It looked cozy, though much, much nicer than he was used to, and he shrugged as if to say, What the hell. I’ve got the money. And it’s probably cheaper than London or Paris. He checked in, heart skipping a beat as he heard the price, that old instinct of never spending anything because there was nothing to spend.

Once he’d gotten into his room, he fell immediately onto soft white linen and down-stuffed pillows.

I’ve come a long way from that damned filthy bedroom, he thought.