“And we should have the clock as a meeting place,” I said, nodding toward it. “If we get separated for any reason, meet there.”

Stevie looked up from her phone, her brow furrowing. “Separated?” she echoed. “Why would we get separated?”

“It’s what my mom always used to say,” I explained. “When we’d all go into the city, and she and I would be going to the American Girl store or the Frick and my dad would be taking Grady to the Natural History Museum or the Morgan Library or whatever.”

“The Morgan Library?”

“It was, like, Grady’s favorite place. I don’t even know. But we’d always have it as an in-case-of-emergency meeting place. Not that we’ll need it. But just to be on the safe side.”

“Well, we need a meeting time then too,” Stevie said, in her practical voice. “Otherwise one of us might be hanging out by the clock for hours.”

“Eleven-eleven?” I suggested with a grin. I was always pointing out when it was 11:11 and insisting we make wishes on it, which Stevie was always was telling me was ridiculous but went along with anyway.

Stevie laughed. “Of course you’d pick that. Sure. Eleven-eleven at the clock if for whatever reason we get separated. Which we won’t.”

“Of course we won’t. This is just in case.”

“Okay,” Stevie said, scrolling through her phone, “it looks like we’ll take the shuttle across to Times Square, and we can walk from there.”

We headed over to where the subways were, crossing the huge expanse, which seemed more crowded than usual. Everyone was walking fast, like they all had somewhere they needed to be right now.

Stevie had her own MetroCard from the last time she was in with her mom, and she took it out of her wallet and tucked it in her coat pocket. She’d told me when we got our tickets on the platform that she was pretty sure there was enough on it so that I could use it too.

“Do you think we should get something to eat on the way?” I asked, falling into step next to Stevie as we made our way through the crowds. “Like a pretzel or a slice or something? Since dinner’s not until late—”

“Stephanie?” We both stopped and looked over. There was a woman standing next to us, sunglasses perched on top of her head even though the sun was going down depressingly early now. She was squinting at Stevie, head cocked to the side. “Is that you?”

I glanced at Stevie, wondering if she knew this woman. She was in her late twenties, with long, blown-out dark hair and perfectly applied makeup. She was dressed all in black, with boots, also black, that had spike heels that had to be at least five inches. She was carrying a big black leather bag and a duffel from a luxury brand, its logo printed on it over and over again.