“Now,” I said.

“Now?” said Juliette.

I slunk down the gangway, Juliette behind me, and prayed that when I stepped on the dock, it would not creak.

For the first time all week, something went my way. The dock was silent, and Juliette and I snuck into the darkness across the pier.

“Lunatic,” said one of the cops—the Irishman I’d heard before. “Bastard deserves to be shot down like a dog.”

“And how you gonna do it without any bullets?” said another, who had torn his shirt to make a bandage for the injured man.

“Let’s get this poor son of a bitch back on the boat. Christ, I hate it here.”

“Seconded.”

It took a while for them to move him, long enough that by the time Juliette and I reached the street, Van Alen and his truck were gone.

“This is mad,” said Juliette.

“Thoroughly.”

“Would you be offended if I left you here? I’ve had quite enough sneaking about for the day, and I believe I’d be more comfortable at home.”

“I feel the same way. Before you go”—I handed her the journal I had found in her father’s cabin—“do you recognize it?”

“These are shipping coordinates.”

“Could you make sense of them?”

“I’ve spent a lifetime trying not to meddle in my father’s affairs. But for you, I will do my best.”

“Thank you.”

She took a few steps uptown, then turned back, and called, “Are you all right, Miss Carr? You don’t look well.”

“You’re absolutely right,” I said and headed west.

It had been a tortuous day. I had walked the breadth of Manhattan more times than a polite girl should. I was hungry, thirsty, exhausted, and injured. I might have been frightened if I weren’t so tired. I dreaded what would happen to my city tomorrow, a viscous feeling that pulsed through my veins and weighed down my feet, but did not keep me from longing for sleep. I would bribe the guards, or threaten them, or sneak past them into the Westside. I would walk back to Bex’s. I would sink into her couch. I would sleep until I had a better idea.

I tried not to think about where Van Alen was getting guns, or why he, a teetotaler, was swapping them for liquor. I tried not to count the blocks I would have to walk to reach Bex’s narrow town house. Instead, I put my mind to work remembering the intricate series of misplays that had cost the Giants that afternoon, but I found I couldn’t remember anything but how hard my seat was and how unimpressed I had been with the blue of the Brooklyn sky.