“When the New York subway system’s first line was built, the Makers designed their own train to be accessible from the City Hall station,” Michael explains. “Unfortunately, in the forties, the station didn’t meet the needs of the new subway cars, so it was abandoned.” He shakes his head ruefully, wearing that dimpled smile. “So inefficient, so wasteful.” He says it like he’s proud of a young child for trying but failing. I roll my eyes and hold back from sniping at him again. He continues, “Luckily, we still have ways to access the station; this approach is the easiest.”

He sticks his hand inside the front of his coat and pulls out a bag of cheese puffs. “I’m hungry. Are you hungry?” He withdraws a bright orange puff from the bag, pops it into his mouth, then tips back his head with a way-too-sensual moan. “Enjoy them while you can.” He holds out the bag for me to take. “There’s no highly processed deliciousness at Genesis,” he says wistfully.

A few minutes later, the bag is empty and I’m trying to lick bright orange powder off my hands. My attempts are mostly unsuccessful. I look at Michael and find him licking his own fingers just as awkwardly. Our eyes meet with a shared moment of panicked embarrassment.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the polite voice of the train announcement drones, “this is the last downtown stop on this train. The next stop on this train will be Brooklyn Bridge / City Hall on the uptown platform.” From my many years riding the subway, I recognize this announcement as standard, but this time it doesn’t stop there. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice continues, “not only is it unsafe, it is a violation to ride or walk between cars except in an emergency or when directed by a police officer or a train crew.”

I stand to head to the exit with everyone else, but Michael shakes his head.

“But this is the last stop,” I say.

“Yes, but we’re the next stop,” he replies as the remaining stragglers make their way out.

“Stand clear of the closing doors, please,” drones the announcement. I feel awkward and a little nervous. Won’t a conductor come kick us out? After a moment the train pulls away from the platform and drives through the dark tunnel.

But it doesn’t stay dark for long. Light trickles in from a skylight as we turn into another station. A beautiful station, with intricate tiling.

“Come on,” Michael calls. He’s already at the sliding doors—which have most definitely not opened considering the train is still moving—fiddling with his multi-tool. “We only have a moment. And be prepared to jump over the gap.” The doors pop open a crack, and Michael separates them further by pulling them apart with his hands.