A squirrely bunch, the Macys, but I had to credit their nerve. Probably had no clue what a disadvantage they were at, too young to have any real training or practical skills. What else could they fall back on besides picking, conniving, and thieving? Partly why Macys tended to age out. Once the thrill of anarchy wore off, older Macys went looking for a better deal. We had several ‘graduates’ at Unca Joe, so we knew how it went there. Lots went to the Tommys or Ladysmiths. The girls were too often pregnant by then, would end up birthing at Gimme Shelter, then staying to raise their child and work the farm. The worst kids likely got swept up by BlackAdder. Maybe my would-be mugger would be one of them.

Once sure they’d given up, I walked west to Ninth, checking my mental map. New territory for me. Straight downtown, the water gleamed like wet metal. I’d crossed 57th in my run, so this could be the high ground behind the old hospital and the pale and stately ruins of Lincoln Center. Not many street signs left, even here above the flood zone.

Across the avenue, a big gap left by a building collapse opened up a vista of glass towers rising out of dark silver, the river in the failing light. Boats jockeyed busily at their feet, dusk-time running lights reflected in the water. Uptowners must still have jobs, even offices to go to, but things had to be a lot different than when these towers were built. My notion of uptown life was a patchwork of rumor and speculation, stitched up by my denmates’ memories, with zero direct experience to go on. Hard not to give in to yearning and fantasies.

From this raised bit of ground, life behind those few lit windows looked serene and protected, away from the filth and danger of the streets. Rubio had hoped for a Venice on the Hudson, implying that he wouldn’t mind so much if sea levels never went down, as long as the climate got stabilized, since Manhattan would make a fabulous canal town. Listening to him, I would dream of a clean bedroom all my own, in a secure tower high above the swollen river. I knew that bedroom’s every detail, like I’d seen it in a video. Memory? Invention? Too perfect to be a place I’d ever have lived in. Rubio was right: I’d never really know which bits that came back to me were fact, and which were romantic fiction. But the boats were central. They meant being able to come and go wherever you wanted to.

New gusts tugged at my hair. A long way from home and here I was with an empty grab bag, lingering like an idiot, wishing for a boat. Time to give it one more go.