Thirty-One

Five Hours Left

The sun was only a few hours from rising when Vivian hopped off the streetcar, Leo at her side. The streetlights were pools of molten gold, but all they lit up was piles of slush and trash and empty streets.

Vivian didn't care. Leo took her hand without speaking, and she let him, though hers were too numb to really feel his touch. The night was cool, but she was colder, a chill that had started in her chest when the commissioner left and slowly spread through her body.

She stared at every ugly, unloved building that they passed as if she were seeing them for the first time. She wished she thought they were beautiful. Shouldn't she be seeing everything with new eyes as she climbed the steps toward her home? Shouldn't she be thinking kind, loving thoughts about the people sleeping on the other side of each door?

Will Freeman, who threw his windows open to share music with the world. His snoring was clear as she went past his door. Mrs. Gonzales's youngest was teething again, and she could hear angry, screeching whimpers drifting down the stairs. Mrs. Thomas could never sleep through the night after years of waking up with one baby after the other. She'd be on the third-floor landing, the window thrown open while she smoked, the only time of day she could be alone. Mr. Brown whimpered behind his door, the sound of a man who'd had too much to drink or not enough, anger and hopelessness spilling out of him and into the world.

They weren't beautiful. They were angry and difficult and hopeful, in spite of everything. They were kind and infuriating. They were alive, and real, and free.

Vivian stumbled on her bad ankle at the top of the steps, her legs worn out and her mind fuzzy. But it was still sharp enough to recognize the person standing in front of her door, black jacket hanging over crossed arms, hat casting shadows over half her face so that Vivian couldn't see her expression.

"Honor," Vivian whispered. "What are you doing here?"