Mandy pulled the freezer packs out of the box. On each one was a warning label: THESE PACKS ARE FILLED WITH NON-TOXIC POTATO STARCH. PLEASE REUSE OR CUT OPEN CAREFULLY AND DISSOLVE IN SINK. Bingo. Mandy carried them over to the sink to dissolve them. Everything in the box was shrink-wrapped in plastic on a cute blue cardboard plate thing that she was probably supposed to reuse, but she probably wasn’t going to. Getting rid of all the packaging was going to be a huge pain in the ass, but she couldn’t let Stuart find out she’d stolen the neighbors’ food. The taco instructions said preparation time was only fifteen minutes. In fifteen minutes she’d be eating fish tacos for two and fully ready to tackle the pile of plastic wrap and cardboard before moving on to the half chicken. She turned on the TV, just for background noise. The midday local news was in the middle of a report.

“… Police are investigating a schoolyard fire in Brooklyn. An empty liter bottle of vodka and a plastic cigarette lighter have been taken into evidence. Luckily the fire occurred last night after school hours and no children were harmed. A portion of the schoolyard will be closed for repairs.”

“We want to know who’s behind this.” Mandy recognized Ted’s assistant principal’s nasal whine. “We also want our schoolyard back. This isn’t just a playground for our children. It’s the hub of the community.”

Mandy dumped the pre-marinated fish chunks into the pan. They began to sizzle.

PART II OCTOBER

Chapter 9

Roy unwrapped the second half of a cold onion bagel with cream cheese and bit into it half-heartedly, scrolling up to reread what he’d just written.

Bettina opened the airlock.

“No!”

He snapped his laptop shut and stood up. Gold? What a joke. The book was shit.

Wadding up the waxed paper, he threw the rest of the bagel over the railing and watched it drift downriver and then disappear in the dark water. He could never get used to how much dough was stuffed into a bagel. It seemed like such a waste of flour and whatever else was in bagels—cement?

“That’s what I love about this river,” a woman seated on a bench behind him remarked. “You got worries? You just throw them in that river and they’re gone.”

Roy smiled grimly at her and continued walking. Oh, he had worries. He’d walked all the way from home, across the Brooklyn Bridge, through South Street Seaport and Battery Park. Now he was at the end of the pier on Christopher Street, in the West Village. His feet ached and he had no reason to walk so far, but walking made him feel like he was writing even when he wasn’t.