They passed a bank and the Italian deli and the funeral home and a pho place and a Korean BBQ and a liquor store and two Irish bars and a 99-cent store and a Rite Aid and the poke place. Finally, they turned onto Steinway Street, which was Payless and the out-of-business Claire’s (still sad about that), and that crazy King Tut restaurant where Anjali had had her birthday dinner, and then Victoria’s Secret and Lane Bryant and a bunch of Euro-type clothes shops Eden never went to—their mannequins all dressed in low-cut, too-short sequined things.

Why would there be cops at the restaurant?

“Maybe Marwan had the right idea,” Eden said when they reached another intersection. A flashing orange hand: Don’t Walk.

“What idea?” Eli asked.

“Abandoning it.”

“That didn’t work out that well for him,” Eli said. “Aizel fried his phone.”

If the device ever fried her phone, she’d lose her father’s voice mail and then probably her mind.

“It seems to be working again now,” she said.

The light changed. A white walker silhouette lit up to tell them it was okay to cross.

“He must have apologized.”

“He doesn’t seem the type,” she said. “But why would it do that? Why mess with his phone?”

“He broke the rules. He left Aizel unattended.”

“So what?”

“So I guess it matters!”

“Why do you keep calling it Aizel?”

“Why do you keep calling Aizel it?” he countered.

“Because it is a thing, not a person,” she said.

Up ahead, a police cruiser’s lights tinted the night air blue and red. A Citizen alert buzzed: POLICE RESPONDING TO VANDALISM AT RESTAURANT.

Egg yolks left yellow blobs—like Rorschach tests—on the restaurant’s front windows. One of them looked like an old VW van. Another like an octopus short a tentacle—or maybe a guy with a mullet. What would Barbara make of that?

A man in the middle of a tearful rant—Marwan’s father?—stood beside a uniformed officer. “Why us? Why would they do this to us?”

She saw Marwan and broke away from Eli to go to him—stepping around cracked eggshells on the sidewalk. She grabbed his arm. “What happened?”

He turned and maybe for a second looked happy to see her. “Two guys, sounds like, ran by and threw eggs with notes attached to them with rubber bands,” he said. “ ‘Go back to your country’ type stuff. They got into a car up there, but nobody got a plate or anything.”

She said, “I’m so sorry.”

He said, “I need to help clean up,” then went to the windows, where a soapy bucket sat.

She stepped forward, rolled up her sleeves, and went to his side. “I’ll help.”

He turned and paused a moment, like he was going to say she shouldn’t bother, then handed her a sponge. It dripped on her boots. It didn’t matter.