“Now who’s the mule?” I mused, finding him at the kitchen table, dressed in clothes from the day prior. On the verge of dawn, I’d awoken thirsty. Or maybe I’d sensed he was still up and hunched over a textbook, grappling yet again with equations by lamplight.

He shot me a peeved side-glance for disrupting his concentration and returned to his paper, eyelids drooping.

On a plate by his elbow sat a curry-egg sandwich, dried and half-eaten. His mug of coffee scented the room, making me wonder how many cups he’d downed to last this long.

“Really though, Arie. You need your sleep.”

“What I need,” he growled, “is to be left alone so I can figure this out.” He erased his work with force, then snatched up his pencil and raked his hair with his free hand.

I sighed. Calculations were my forte, from years of diagramming escapes and tricks, so despite his standard aversion to help, wrapped in my robe, I joined him at the table.

Well, technically the robe was Thea’s. Although, sadly, the way Mrs. Jansen tossed her daughter’s periodic unopened letters into a drawer, dismissed like last week’s funnies, implied I’d be borrowing the garment for quite a while.

It also meant Thea wouldn’t be here anytime soon with sisterly advice. Namely the kind that was tough but vital to hear.

“Arie, I’ve been thinking.” I aimed for a tactful approach. “You’re whip-smart at so many things, and engineering is fine and good. But maybe you ought to go another direction, one that doesn’t rely so much on numbers.”

His pencil stopped. I couldn’t decipher if he was pondering his math or my suggestion.

I tried again. “You know, with so many specialties out there—”

“The Midtown Hudson Tunnel.”

I stared, puzzled.

Then he raised his gaze to mine, no longer aggravated, still intent. “It’s going to run a mile and a half under the Hudson, connecting New York and Jersey. For cars to drive through. Under the river, Fen. That’s why I can’t do anything else. I have to be part of something as big as that. To do something that’s special and lasting…something…” He was searching for the word.

“Magical?” I suggested lightly.

He shook his head. “Purposeful,” he finished, and then I understood.

Chapter 22

During my latter years of high school, I had gone to dances with various fellows. Even necked with a few. Yet the only boy I had mooned over was Hendrik, the boy who had grown more than pleasingly out of his lankiness and blunt features. Though we’d shared friendly flirtations in Latin class junior year and in physics as seniors, his high-school courtship never strayed from Nina Dewitt. Shapely and pert, the Home Arts Society president would profusely fuss over him whenever he placed well at a track-and-field meet. Which was often.