44

I CHECK IN MY ROOM IN A ONE-STAR ESTABLISHMENT THAT'S PLAYINGloose and fast with the label "hotel" (it's called the Standard American Hotel). Originally, Vern and I had picked it because it would be within walking distance of the competition (and by within walking distance we meant half an hour on foot, but hey, we have limited funds).

I take a quick nap (by which I mean three hours), wake up refreshed, and then realize it's almost midnight, local time.

You up?I text Royce. No response. He was probably still asleep, because obviously traveling business class was very tough on a teenager's health.

I leave my room, dressed in a puffy jacket, jeans, and boots, ready to start exploring NYC like a true tourist, which is to say with my fully charged phone, which has the cheapest roaming data plan; my house key jammed like a claw between my index and middle finger; and a backup map in my jeans pocket, the fear leaking from every pore of my body (because of all the media set in NYC, including true-crime podcasts, I'd consumed).

Of course, I bump into Vern, shivering slightly in the cold marble lobby in spite of his winter clothing.

"Going somewhere?" he says.

"Just exploring."

"You shouldn't go alone," he says lightly. "It's not safe. We're not exactly in a nice neighborhood, if you realize."

I weigh my options. Outside, there is a literal boulder of a man in a ratty parka, the hood up, his hands in his bulging pockets, staring at the entrance of the hotel, like a vampire waiting for a victim to cross the threshold. Every so often, he stopped muttering to laugh maniacally before lapsing back into a low mutter. He seemed to be in discussion with someone we can't see.

Vern catches my eye and raises an eyebrow.

"He's just…chilling."

"He sure looks harmless," Vern says mildly.

"Not a vampire," I added, àpropos de rien.

"So why don't you go out there on your own, then?"

I take a deep breath and mutter, "Okay, fine I need company, but I'm not talking to you."

We walk in silence down a random street, dazzled by the lights and grime and noise, the streams of people, until I locate a hot-dog cart with a surly, half-asleep hot-dog vendor. Stars in my eyes, I buy one from the man (despite Vern opining that it looked like we'd been the only customer in hours) and gobble it up, sauerkraut, mustard, and rubbery frankfurter sliding down my throat in a woeful mass, but my pride is too strong and I refuse to admit Vern is right, so I gamely chow down the entire dog.

"So, you basically paid New York prices to eat skate-rink food," Vern says.

"Shut up, don't ruin my buzz," I say. The onion clings to my throat like it's alive (and maybe it is). No matter how much I swallow, I can't get it down the hatch. "Y-yummmm," I choke out.

Vern sighs and passes me his water bottle. "Please, Chan."

I take it with ill-disguised relief.

We walk around the block till I start to wind down around 2:30 a.m., taking in the bars, the clubs, the eateries, and the unidentifiable shop fronts without speaking, as poor tourists do, just walking, the silence between us strange but not hostile, and finally, hearing me yawn, he suggests that we head back and I don't protest.

There's a finality to our hanging out that filters through the head fog of my jetlag, a kind of low-grade sorrow. We'd been each other's confidant for almost seven months, and now we'd never be anything more than a footnote in each other's histories.

We stop in front of the lobby. The man from before is still there, leaning against a graffitied wall with his head tilted to the sky now, still muttering and laughing. It occurs to me that it sounds as though he's conversing with someone he likes.

Vern faces me. "I wish"—he clears his throat and swallows audibly—"I wish things had turned out differently."

"Me too," I say, meeting his gaze.

It's not an apology. It's not nearly enough. I take it anyway.

He presses his lips together and the smile slips back on, askew. "See you tomorrow, Chan."

"See you tomorrow," I echo.

He nods and waits for me to enter the lobby first and take the lone elevator, the half smile on his face the last thing I see as the doors close and I rise.