“Yes. This is the same. The city in days gone by. This station was the crown jewel of the transit system, and yet they had to shutter the station because it couldn’t accommodate the longer trains. It could only handle five-car trains. It was too curved, too round, so in 1945, they shut it down,” he tells me as we circle past it, the tracks serving as a mere turnaround, offering a now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t view into what once was.

“Why is this your favorite place? Because you only catch a glimpse of it?” I offer, trying to understand what excites him about the abandoned stop.

He shakes his head. “It reminds me that we can all become obsolete at any moment. It reminds me that success is fleeting.” He sweeps his arm out wide, gesturing to the grandeur that has no purpose anymore. “You can have the best transit system in the entire world, and if you don’t plan for the future it can be shut down.”

Nodding, I let that little nugget of insight soak into my brain. A part of me almost hates how quickly I agree with him. I want to quiz him, to poke a hole in his argument, like a good journalist. But I can’t because his observation rings wholly true. “I can see that. It’s like a beautiful warning.”

“Precisely. A reminder that at any moment we might be shut down.”

“Haven?”

He nods. “This station is incredible, and I love it, but I don’t want my company to become a relic.”

“Can I quote you on that?” I ask, because this feels personal, as if we’re diving into territory that needs the consent confirmed.

“Of course.”

He points to the station as we leave it in the rearview. “This is a recognition that there is so much to look out for—the past, the present, and the future. You have to adapt to the changes so that your train can keep using the tracks.”

“Love the metaphor.” I study his face for a moment. “You kind of remind me of old New York.”

“I should be shut down?”

“No,” I say, adamantly. “I mean you. There’s something about you. You’re thoroughly modern, but I could see you fitting into the Gatsby era.”

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past,” he says, quoting the last line in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s most famous work. “Another warning not to repeat the mistakes of the past. Or, wait. Should I not quote Fitzgerald? Same rule as T.S. Eliot for you, Miss English major?”

“Exactly. You’re asking for trouble,” I say, smiling, since I’m amused, maybe even overwhelmed by Flynn. He has so many layers. I want to keep peeling away at them, peeking at what lurks inside. “You’re an interesting man. You’re not just a math nerd. You’re a Renaissance man.”

“Is that so?”

I nod resolutely. “You are.”

He shrugs, and his lips curve into a smile. It’s one of those I’ll take it grins, and I love it.