Alfonzo recalled the storms of seasons before and the strange, festive mood that would precede them. Everyone turned giddy with the fear of the clouds. He remembered the sandbags heaped around buildings, wood blocking windows, water blurring windshields. He remembered his mother’s frail voice over the phone saying they were fine and the restful quality of darkness that fell across the river after that transformer exploded. We have already heard of what’s coming, he thought. The music has already begun.

Into the fancy vestibules of finance buildings the water crept. The water took the cracks and hung on to coats and tails. It slicked across elevator floors and evaporated once inside, steaming up the windows. Droplets sank into carpets in solidarity with the waves that beat against the island’s edges. The ice melted, and as it did it sang its song of praise and mourning.

The water would continue to come and go, advancing and retreating at the moon’s urging forever. This was not a threat, it was a promise. This was not a battle, just a rhythm.

How long it takes to navigate this tiny fragment of land—eons, perhaps. Mitchell and Pamella whispered and joked between themselves and Alfonzo trailed behind. They wandered past the bull and all the way to the foot of the Museum of the American Indian. They did nothing to distinguish themselves from the tourists or the other locals. Everyone was wet and therefore vulnerable. We who are fragile must become willing to change form even as our purpose remains constant, Alfonzo hummed. They allowed themselves to just belong. They turned east, taking Beaver to Wall, Wall to Water, then finally passed beneath FDR Drive and reached Pier 11.

Under a curve of decorative metal meant to evoke the prow of a ship was a booth, and in the booth crouched a ticket-seller cat dressed in an orange raincoat. She gave them news of the next ferry, which would sail for Brooklyn. It was 11:00 a.m. now. Their ship would arrive at any moment. Mitchell, Pamella, and Alfonzo thanked her for the good word, and the damp cat scowled from beneath her hood.

This city bobbed and swayed. The wide river, the tidal strait, and the salty waters of the sound hummed in concert. So many millions of creatures lived across this archipelago. They were alive right then in their vulnerable habitat, but it could all just disappear. Alfonzo was not up for the catastrophe. He was just a dumb animal making noises. Thinking of his father, remembering his mother, marveling over all those he loved, he saw his city. Anything can be a boat as long as it floats.