By the high 120s, the tide was slowing, ready to turn, and there were wider stretches of water between buildings—empty blocks or old parking lots. Low-slung warehouses and derelict factories hid just beneath the surface, as treacherous as reefs to anyone straying from the deeper water of the avenue. The dropping temp had raised a dense fog that hugged the water. Visibility? Maybe twenty feet ahead. Down the side streets to our left, the higher, dry ground of West Harlem hovered like a thickening of the mist. More than one of us peered up those streets in exhaustion and envy. But no refuge for denfolk where people like Bright’s bosses held sway. It was Yankee Stadium or bust.

Soon, the last buildings vanished below a huge, storm-tossed estuary. Between us and open water remained a wilderness of broken concrete piers and collapsed trusswork, looming out of the fog like a forest shredded by a cyclone, only the sturdiest trunks left sticking out of the water. A faint line of gray stood darker against the sky—the distant shore, the South Bronx.

Progress slowed again as the convoy worked through the obstacle course, fighting wind and wave to keep from being smashed against a piling. The tide had ceased its northward pull. Slack water. Daniel eased back the engine and came topside fastening his foul-weather gear to re-engage the hand tiller, so he could steer with a 360 view.

“Go on below,” he told Breakers. “You’ve done your part.”

She cradled her rifle and didn’t complain.

He clicked into a safety harness, then rechecked mine. “Welcome to the Harlem River.”

I stared at the charred and shattered block, the twisted steel. Out in the misted bay, if you squinted hard, you could see a single squared-off span of trusswork remaining upright. “What happened here?” It couldn’t just be storm damage.

“This was a while ago.” Daniel circled one arm. “Used to be a whole complex of bridges up here: the Willis Avenue over the Harlem River, the Triborough over to Queens and Long Island, then all the upper Harlem ones . . .”

I recalled Rubio going on about the uptown bridges, heard their names in his voice, and got beat up again by crushing loss. Had to clear my throat to get a word out. “I remember now. Some idiots blew them up, Rube said. He loved bridges.”