She sits down and I sit down next to her. She catches our reflection in the window across from us and then gives a little laugh. “Don’t look so worried,” she says at my expression, turning to face me, and reaching over to physically smooth my eyebrows up. “I was okay. And then my nana came to the rescue for real and took me back to sunny, wide-open Los Angeles and I honestly never thought much of it again until I moved here. I really wasn’t expecting New York to trigger all of that, especially since the threat of actual earthquakes in LA never did. But I guess something about the combination of sensations here just . . . has.”

I nod. “I mean, looking at it from that perspective, it makes sense. And I’m sorry if I was ever a jerk about it.”

“What are you talking about? You fit in perfectly with my instantaneous decision to hate New York. I couldn’t have asked for a better archetype.” She smirks at me. “Anyway, I have to admit that my chill attitude in Cali might have also had something to do with the readily accessible weed that blessed my life.”

“Ah,” I say. “So now it’s Mary to the rescue?”

“She may be well-intentioned but it’s more like interference than rescue. That’s sort of her MO.” She looks down at the envelope in her hand. “By the way, do you have any idea how to get here?”

“I have a general idea of where to go,” I say. “And I know someone in the neighborhood who should be able to help us figure it out. Good news is, no transfers. We just have to take this train for a while.”

“Great,” she says as she leans back and closes her eyes. “Just wake me up when it’s all over, but only if we’ve managed to elude jail. Otherwise, I’d rather be unconscious.”

She keeps her eyes closed for the rest of the ride and I can’t help but sneak glances over at her from time to time. If I was living in my own handbook, I’d consider her confession to me a Future Honesty. How many people does she ever tell about that earthquake? I’d bet it isn’t many.

I nudge her gently when we get to Smith and Ninth, and we exit the subway into the bustling street filled with shoppers and brunchers. I walk a few storefronts down before entering Gus’s Leather Emporium and Pub. Half the store is manned by an ancient cobbler who looks like he was transplanted straight from 1900s Italy to grumpily sit in front of his rack of high-end and extremely shiny shoes, wallets, and purses. The other is manned by a guy with a pointed, chest-length goatee and a beanie. They are both named Gus (Sr. and the III), but it’s the younger one who’s my friend.