What was strange about that, about an eighteen-year-old girl in the Big Apple imbibing in that area, was that midtown was dead at night. During the week, this place hustled with enterprise. On weekend days, you had the tourist trade. But on a Saturday night, there were few people on the street. New York might be the city that never sleeps, but as he hit Fifth Avenue in the upper Fifties, midtown was taking a serious nap . He got caught at a traffic light on Fifth Avenue at Fifty-second Street. The door handle jangled, and then Aimee opened the door and slipped into the back . Thank you, she said . You okay?From behind him a small voice said, I'm fine . I 'm not a chauffeur, Aimee. Sit up front . She hesitated, but she did as he asked. When she closed the passenger door, Myron turned to face her. Aimee stared straight out the front window. Like most teens, she'd splattered on too much makeup. The young don't need makeup, especially that much. Her eyes were red and raccoon-like. She was dressed in something teenage-tight, like a thin wrapping of gauze, the kind of thing that, even if you had the figure, you couldn't carry past the age of maybe twenty-three . She looked so much like her mother had at that age . The light's green, Aimee said . He started driving. What happened?Some people were drinking too much. I didn't want to drive with them . Where?Where what?Again Myron knew that midtown was not a young-people hot spot. Most hung out in bars on the Upper East Side or maybe down in the Village. Where were you drinking?Is that important?I'd like to know . A imee finally turned toward him. Her eyes were wet. You promised . He kept driving . You promised you wouldn't ask any questions, remember?I just want to make sure you're all right . I am . Myron made a right, cutting across town. I'll take you home then . No . He waited . I 'm staying with a friend . Where?She lives in Ridgewood . He glanced at her, brought his eyes back to the road. In Bergen County?Yes . I 'd rather take you home . My parents know I'm staying at Stacy's . Maybe you should call them . A nd say what?That you're okay . Myron, they think I'm out with my friends. Calling them would only make them worry . She had a point, but Myron didn't like it. His gas light went on. He'd need to fill up. He headed up the West Side Highway and over the George Washington Bridge. He stopped at the first gas station on Route 4. New Jersey was one of only two states that did not allow you to pump your own gas. The attendant, wearing a turban and engrossed in a Nicholas Sparks novel, was not thrilled to see him . Ten dollars' worth, Myron told him .