“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

Jaime texted his grandmother to tell her he was on his way home. Then, he took the Underway back to Grand Central Station in Manhattan, but instead of hopping another downtown train, he did what he’d been doing more and more of lately: He walked. There had been days during which Jaime walked for hours and hours, taking in as much of the city as he could. Ever since 354 W. 73rd Street had come down—ever since they had brought it down—every single store and monument and building seemed fragile somehow, too easily razed, too easily broken. He’d sit on a bench in Washington Square Park or under the cover of a bus stop or on the stoop of a pizza shop, penciling the buildings in his sketchbook. Then he’d go home and ink them, trying to make them all feel real again, whole again, impervious to everything and everyone, the people who meant to do ill and the ones who meant do well, because, sometimes, the result was the same.

Today, he walked all the way from Grand Central Station down to Broadway and Liberty Street. He sat on a bench and stared up at the Morningstarr Tower, once the tallest building in Manhattan. Not too long ago, you could tour the building. Ride one of the ever-shifting escalators. See the writing desk of Theresa Morningstarr, the portrait of a scowling Theodore Morningstarr hanging over one of the grand fireplaces. Take an elevator all the way to the top of the tower, look out upon the whole of the city, the blue-gray water all around. Jaime opened his sketchbook and drew the elegant lines of the building, the Underway tracks spiraling up the tower.

He did not draw the fences around the building. The caution tape. The CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE signs. The name SLANT plastered everywhere.

He sketched until his hand ached and his stomach rumbled for dinner. So he put his sketchbook away. Instead of taking the PATH train, he walked back up to 39th Street, where he could catch the ferry. He bought his ticket and joined the crowds of commuters piling onto the boat. Instead of taking a seat inside, he wound his way through the throngs of people and found a place for himself outside along the guardrails. He didn’t mind the wind; he didn’t mind the fine spray. Despite the late hour, the air was still warm, the evening sky bright with the light of the silvery moon. When he leaned over the railing and looked closely, the water below was alive with darting silvery fish. The moon and the water and the fish soothed him, reminded him of the good things in the world, the city they were trying to save, even if the city didn’t know it needed saving.