Edgar sighed. “Of course. But you must understand, security is necessary, and I’m extremely grateful to the men and women who protect me. Because this isn’t about me as an individual—they’re protecting a symbol and an institution. And so if my freedom is curtailed, I mustn’t complain. And James isn’t merely an employee, but a treasured friend, with only my best interests at heart—he’s raised me. And all of this, it’s a situation I’ve experienced since birth, so it’s simply—my life.”

We’d been walking for some time and Edgar had only grown more earnest, laboring to convince himself as well as me.

“So,” I said, “do you really believe all that?”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you believe that you’re some delicate artifact, a rare orchid or a Fabergé egg that gets placed gently into a velvet-lined trunk and carried through the streets under armed guard?”

“You really are, what was that American word?”

“An asshole?”

“No.”

“A nasty little brat?”

“Getting warmer . . .”

“The voice of truth and reason?”

“No—a douchewad. That’s the word.”

We’d left the park and were heading west, through the city. I retrieved a membership card from my wallet to unlock a Citi Bike from a nearby stand.

“What are you doing?”

“These are Citi Bikes, and I’m using my membership to get a bike for each of us. Come on. You can ride a bike, can’t you? Prince Powderpuff?”

“Of course I can ride a bike. But where would we go?”

“I need to show you something. It’ll change your life. Right now.”

“But we mustn’t, James will have my head, and the team—”

“It’s just for a few minutes. A temporary prison break. Over the wall.”

“I can’t. Really.”

“Chickenshit. Which is another American word. It means you.”

“I am not—any form of chicken! I served in the military for two years! I’ve piloted medivac helicopters in Afghanistan!”

“Then come on, soldier,” I said, handing him his bike.

“Your Highness!” James called out from half a block away.

“You’re a dreadful influence!”

“I put that on my tax return.”

For a second Edgar debated between duty and mischief, or as I liked to call it, me. I’d already straddled my bike, and as I pedaled across the West Side Highway, Edgar was right behind me. We picked up speed and made it across many lanes of traffic just as the light changed, stranding a fuming James and the security team, who were busily trying to unlock bikes of their own, without any luck; they could defuse a bomb or take down a squad of kidnappers, but New York transportation was a very different challenge, and I bet none of them had MetroCards either.