Billie orders room service. Then she decides to set out for Bryant Park. She’ll go watch the chess players, which is what she and Paul Zell were going to do, what they talked about doing online. Maybe you’ll be there, Paul Zell.

She has a map. She doesn’t get lost. She walks the whole way. When she gets to Bryant Park, sure enough, there are some chess games going on. Old men, college kids, maybe even a few superheroes. Pigeons everywhere, underfoot. New Yorkers walking their dogs. A lady yelling at a phone. No Paul Zell. Not that Billie would know Paul Zell if she saw him.

Billie sits on a bench beside a trash can and after a while someone sits down beside her. Not Paul Zell. A superhero. The superhero from the hotel business center.

“We meet again,” the superhero says.

Billie says, “Are you following me?”

“No,” the superhero says. “Maybe. I’m Lightswitch.”

“I’ve heard of you,” Billie says. “You’re famous.”

“Famous is relative,” Lightswitch says. “Sure, I’ve been on Oprah. But I’m no Tyrannosaurus Hex.”

“There’s a comic book about you,” Billie says. “Although, uh, she doesn’t look like you. Not really.”

“The artist likes to draw boobs life-sized. Just the boobs.”

They sit for a while in companionable silence. “You play chess?” Billie asks.

“Of course,” Lightswitch says. “Doesn’t everyone? Who’s your favorite chess personage?”

“You mean player? Paul Morphy,” Billie says. “Although Koneru Humpy has the best name ever.”

“Agreed,” Lightswitch says. “So are you in town for the shindig? Shindig. What kind of word is that? Archeological excavation of the shin. Knee surgery. Do you work with someone?”

“Do you mean, am I a sidekick?” Billie says. “No. I’m not a sidekick. I’m Billie Faggart. Hi.”

“Sidekick. There’s another one. Kick in the side. Pain in the neck. Kick in the shin. Ignore me. I get distracted sometimes.” Lightswitch holds out a hand for Billie to shake, and Billie does. She thinks that there will be a baby jolt maybe, like one of those joke buzzers. But there’s nothing. It’s just an ordinary handshake, except Lightswitch’s completely solid hand still looks funny, staticky, like it’s really somewhere else. Billie can’t remember if Lightswitch is from the future or the eighth dimension. Or maybe neither of those is quite right.

Two little kids come up and want Lightswitch’s autograph. They look at Billie as if wondering whether they ought to ask for her autograph, too.

Billie stands up, and Lightswitch says, “Wait. Let me give you my card.”

“Why?” Billie says.

“Just in case,” Lightswitch says. “You might change your mind at some point about the sidekick thing. It isn’t a long-term career, you know, but it’s not a bad thing to do for a while. Mostly it’s fan mail, photo ops, banter practice.”

Billie says, “Um, what happened to your last sidekick?” And then, seeing the look on Lightswitch’s face, wonders if this is not the kind of question you’re supposed to ask a superhero.