“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it, really.”

“Well, it’s no use. We got them. All of them.”

“Thank God, Officer.”

“You’ll have him call me right away?”

“Yes. Yes, right away.” I eased the receiver back onto the phone. Where was Jesse? Where had he been for two days? Ours was just a little fight, I thought. Not serious enough for him to be gone so long without word. And now good news: a chance to join the company and the arrest of the kids who attacked Metro. But where was Jesse? I remembered then the pile of wallet papers and the tongue of envelope with his handwriting folded neatly and placed—where? I looked frantically. The dresser drawer? The cabinet? The telephone? Yes. There. West Street, Pier 52. I tossed the slip of paper into my bag and headed for the IRT. The tights made my legs heavy under my jeans. I prayed I could find him.

Jesse

Jesse

Her hands kept sticking to me. Pulling on me. Holding fast. I needed to go somewhere, anywhere, quick. I rode the subway most of the night for as far as I could go on a single token. I’d give back to the trains the constant roaring in my chest. I wanted tunnels and lights and the grimy arms of travel. From 86th Street and Broadway, I took the downtown #1 IRT to Times Square, then the SS to Grand Central Station, walked through the underground passage to the Lexington Line and rode the #4 express to 14th Street, changed for the LL train over to the West Side at 8th Avenue, and there took the IND AA caroom-boom-clack, caroom-boom-clack, caroom to the E downtown at West 4th Street, switched to the uptown F train and changed at 42nd Street for the #7 Flushing, then uptown again on the Lexington #5 this time and changed at 59th Street for the BMT N train over again to the West Side, and the #1 local all the way to 125th Street, where the tracks come out of the ground and stand high above the streets and lights and noise.