“Seventh Avenue,” the announcer said, and I looked out the window as the train started to slow down. I rubbed the dog’s fur with my thumb again as I tried to think about my next steps. Just a tiny bite of the whale—not everything, just what I needed to do right now. And what I needed to do right now was find Kat. Even though I was still furious, even though I was reeling from the loss of Ophelia, we still needed to find each other.

If I got off at this station, I could just switch back to go downtown two stops, and hopefully Kat would still be there on the platform. It was what I’d always been taught growing up: if I got separated from my parents, wait. Don’t go looking for them, they would find me. I had to believe that Kat was following the same advice. Because otherwise… I couldn’t think about that. That was eating the whole whale, and nobody could do that.

So Kat would be there, and we’d move past our fight somehow, and I’d get us up to Columbia. I’d been annoyed when Kat just expected me to have the answer, but I did, in fact, remember where we were supposed to be going. Ever since my phone had gotten wrecked, I’d been repeating it on a low loop in the back of my head so I wouldn’t lose it—B or D to Columbus Circle, transfer to the 1. Take the 1 train to 116th, and Mateo is in the dorm at 600 West 113th.

The train came to a stop, and I got off, looking around the station. Brad looked around too—his panting seemed to have lessened a little. There were pockets of Manhattan I felt I could navigate, mostly the blocks directly around West 72nd Street, where my dad’s apartment was, and East Fifty-Third, where his office was. But aside from that, the city was just so big, so fast, so intimidating. Did real New Yorkers get a sense of home when they got out at their particular subway stop, know all their favorite spots, feel that they could walk astride the city like it was theirs? I wasn’t sure—I had certainly never felt like that. I was just scurrying around it, head down, hoping I wouldn’t be found out, an interloper with a scarlet S—for suburbs—that everyone could see.

Unlike the previous station, this one was practically deserted, and less well-lit. As I looked around to try and find the downtown track, I could see that the pillars, the walls, and practically every available surface were plastered with papers that detailed all the track changes and delays at this particular station.