“It’s not so much that I’m fascinated. I’m more curious and impressed with how handy you are. I suppose, in a post-apocalyptic world, you’d have a seriously usable skill to barter with.”

I crack up. “That’s exactly why I learned to sew. To trade services at the end of the world. Speaking of, how will you manage, Mr. CEO? Will you organize the first company to sell post-apocalyptic supplies?”

“Maybe.” He scratches his jaw. “Or perhaps I’d start an escort business.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “You’d have time for an escort business?”

“I’d make time for it. One, pleasure would be at a premium when the fate of the world hangs in the balance. Two, what if it’s not really the end of the world? It’d be good to have a business that can transition. Three, I have a feeling I’d be excellent at it, and it would make my final days brighter.”

“You are indeed prepared for a doomsday scenario. I’m impressed.”

We head past the turnstiles and into the muggy station, waiting for the 6 train. “Also, I assume you’re good with us chatting for the piece as we ride the subway?”

“Absolutely. It was my idea, after all.” He taps his chest, a look of pride in his eyes. “And I’m pretty damn proud of myself for finding something you haven’t done.”

“Me too,” I say, bouncing on the toes of my short gray boots. “Especially since I’ve lived in New York or around it my entire life, and I’ve never actually seen the abandoned City Hall subway station.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “There’s a first time for everything, then.”

Like sex with a stranger at a masquerade party.

But that night was both a first and a last time, I remind myself.

I take out my phone, hit record on my voice recorder app, and clear my throat. “Tell me about the robot you made when you were a kid.”

He shoots me a curious look. “Why are you asking about the robot?”

“I suspect Mr. Cardboard Robot has significance in the story I want to tell about Flynn Parker, the next generations business visionary.” I peer down the tracks. No sign of the train. “The robot was one of the first things you made. Did you always want to create?”

He strokes his chin. “Ah, she assembles the clues, like Inspector Poirot.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “I love him.”

“He’s badass,” Flynn says of Agatha Christie’s Belgian detective. Flynn strokes an imaginary mustache, the crime solver’s trademark.

I lean in closer and whisper, “So glad you don’t have one of those curlicue mustaches.”

He mirrors me, sliding near and dropping his volume. “Me too.” He steps back. “So, you want to understand the role of the robot in my life story.”

“I do.” I’ve started the interview with a relatively easy question, but at the same time, it’s one that I hope will open a door, that will give me a chance to look around, to shine a flashlight into the corners of his mind that he might not normally share.