We sat in Box Five a few moments more, waiting for the audience to make their exit. “You enjoyed the show,” he stated as the crowds finally started to disperse.

I struggled to find the words, and all seemed inadequate. “It was everything I ever wanted,” I whispered, bringing my hands to my face in girlish wonderment.

Riley smiled, and standing, offered his hand. I placed my hand in his, and once I stood, found we were barely a foot apart. He towered over me; I had never felt safer.

“Come,” he ordered.

I obeyed. We emerged into Times Square, Riley’s hand once more against the small of my back. The crowds were much smaller than before, but there were still people hustling about, taking in the nightlife and the lights. I let the rush and excitement wash over me, the LED billboards painting the air around us in brilliant, bold sweeps. I leaned into Riley’s protective touch. We were an island amidst the sea of humanity. I felt untouchable, like a ship sheltered in a cove, protected from the sea’s rage.

We meandered around Times Square in a comforting silence, absorbing the sights and sounds. I wanted the night to never end. But then, just like Cinderella—

“It is time,” Riley said. He took my hand and led me down 42nd Street toward the Port Authority Bus Terminal.

Midnight was almost upon us, and I couldn’t shake the growing fear that I was about to lose everything.

Riley deftly wove us through the crowds with the same finesse he displayed in driving. I followed blindly, preparing myself mentally for what might lie ahead. What if we were late? What if there were cultists waiting for us? What if—?

“Desist,” Riley ordered, but he threw me a small smile over his shoulder. “I can feel you worrying.”

I nodded mutely and tried to keep up. My heels, while shockingly comfortable, were making it difficult to match the pace he was setting. I was relieved when the Port Authority finally loomed over us, a strangely ominous and dark structure after the wonderland that was Times Square. It looked more like a prison fortress than a bus terminal, and if it hadn’t been for Riley’s pull, I might have paused there in the street in a sudden lack of courage. Instead, I was dragged forward, and I took a deep breath to steel myself.

Inside the Port Authority was a deserted maze of stairs, ugly orange tiles and brown trim. I looked around, already disoriented and unable to determine where the lockers would even be located. The silence within the terminal was stark and oppressive compared to the streets just outside. My eye caught a glimpse of a clock—it was 11:45 p.m.

“Riley—” I began, but he shushed me.

“Not now,” he growled, and he looked like an animal on the hunt. He glanced at me. “Don’t look—but we are being followed.”