Svetlana called out from the kitchen, where she’d just opened a LaCroix; Ilanka had heard the crisp release of the can. “My mom just texted me that your mom said I could stay for dinner.”

“Great!” Ilanka called out, and decided not to send the text after all.

End_game

End_game

Eden

EDEN

Her mother was running late for a Pilates class she was trying out. That would make Mondays as awesome as Thursdays, if it stuck, but it didn’t really matter. Only tonight mattered. Her mom had offered to stay home—on account of the bomb scare—but Eden said no, she was fine, really, go.

Her mom was texting frantically as she got ready. Text. Ponytail. Text. Shoes on. Text. Water bottle. Text. Text. Text.

“Who are you texting?” Eden asked.

“Nobody.” Her mom ducked into the bathroom, and Eden went for the phone. Her mom had written to NH.

It doesn’t matter how I feel.

And I will deny it.

Please stop.

A text came in just then in a different chat window.

Nancy Rankin: You’re coming, right?

Eden moved away from the phone when she heard her mom flush.

“Everything okay?” Eden asked.

“Yeah, why?” Her mom grabbed her bag.

Eden said, “Never mind.”

Now wasn’t the time for a big chat.

There was barely enough time to get out there and back before her mother would be home. But it did still feel like the best spot. Far enough away that they could really wash their hands of it. Far enough away that no one would be tempted to go back to check on it.

Finally, her mom left and the house felt eerily quiet in the long moment before Eden sprang into action. She gathered her phone and wallet and put them in her backpack with her map, then headed out to Crescent Street to hail a cab the old-fashioned way.

A few cabs passed her with their Off Duty lights on before one stopped. She still thought of them as yellow taxis even though, in Astoria anyway, they were mostly green now. She turned her phone off before saying, “I need to stop at Thirty-Fourth Avenue and Thirty-Ninth Street to pick up friends, then we’re heading out toward LaGuardia.”

He started the meter. “What airline?”

“Oh, we’re not going to the airport. There’s a park near there. I’ll give you directions.”

They spent one long avenue stuck behind a trash truck, watching bags get tossed into the dirt-streaked bin, then crushed periodically. The driver cursed a few times and noted—“They’re sure taking their time”—then, when he had the chance, gunned it and drove into oncoming traffic to get around it. A car honked.

They hadn’t exactly confirmed they were going ahead with it.

Had they?