to the ground. It turned out to be easy — there was nothing more than a simple hook holding it in place, and as soon as he released the hook, he could push the ladder down to the ground. Once he’d climbed down, its counterweights took it back up. With one last glance at the trash barrel the rats had disappeared into, Ryan scurried out of the alleyway into 70th Street, turned left, and headed west.
Coming to Columbus, he turned north and hurried along the sidewalk. He’d never been out this late by himself, and tonight the streets seemed a lot scarier than they ever had before. The sidewalk was busy, and Ryan kept dodging in and out, threading his way uptown as quickly as he could. He could feel people looking at him, but Ryan was careful not to look back at them. Then, when he finally came to 82nd Street, he realized he had no idea which direction to go. He peered first one way, then the other, but neither of the blocks he could see looked much different from the other. Then he figured it out — he’d start by going toward the park, looking at every building on the south side, then cross to the north side and head west again. When he got back to the corner he was on, he’d keep going west, going back and forth across the street if he couldn’t see a sign clearly.
But what if there wasn’t a sign? What if it was one of those places that only had an address showing from the sidewalk?
He decided not to think about it.
Turning east, he started along the narrow sidewalk, reading every sign and examining every building that had no sign as carefully as he could. A couple of times he even snuck up onto the steps to read the names by the mailboxes.
When he finally came to Central Park West, he crossed the street and started back west.
Nothing.
He crossed Columbus and worked his way toward Amsterdam. He was staring at one of the buildings on the south side, trying to read the address, when suddenly he heard a voice.
“Looking for something, son?”
Jumping, Ryan spun around to see a tall man dressed in khaki pants and a tee shirt looking at him, his head cocked slightly to one side. ‘Never talk to strangers,’ he heard his mother’s voice whisper inside his head. ‘And if a stranger tries to talk to you, run away. If he chases you, start yelling as loud as you can.’
“It’s kinda late for a kid your age to be out, isn’t it?” the man said. Now he glanced up and down the street. To see if there was anyone else on the block? To see if anyone was watching? Ryan’s heart pounded harder, and he tensed himself, ready to run if the man came any closer. But then the man spoke again. “Look, kid — I don’t know what you’re doing out here by yourself, but it’s not very safe. All kinds of—” He hesitated, then finished. “There’s all kinds of weirdos in this city. So if you’re lost, just tell me, and I’ll help you find where you’re going.”
Ryan hesitated, and the man took a step toward him.
“Run,” he heard his mother’s voice say. “Run as fast as you can.”
Spinning away from the man, Ryan raced down the block.
“Hey!” the man called after him, but Ryan didn’t even look back until he came to the corner of Amsterdam, where the bright lights and stream of traffic made him feel safer. Pausing to catch his breath, he finally looked back.
The man had vanished.
When his breathing evened out, Ryan crossed Amsterdam and continued along 82nd, but now he kept glancing backward in case the man in the tee shirt — or anyone else — was following him. And then, half a block past Broadway, he found it. He almost missed it, because it looked more like a house than anything else, and all that was over the door was the address. But as he was about to go on, a glint of light caught his eye, and he saw the small brass plaque mounted next to the door: ‘The Biddle Institute.’
Now that he’d found it, though, how was he going to find his mother? Just looking at it, he was pretty sure it wasn’t like a hospital, where you could just walk in. But at least he had to try.
Glancing up and down the street — and seeing no one — he scurried up the steps and tried the door.
Locked.
Going back to the sidewalk, he crossed the street, an idea already formulating in his mind.
Maybe he could get into The Biddle Institute the same way he’d gotten out of The Rockwell.
Looking up, he saw that the roof of The Biddle Institute was exactly level with the roof of the building next door. And the building next door was an apartment building.
Apartment buildings were easy to get into — all you had to do was ring a bunch of bells, and wait for someone to buzz you in — he’d seen it on TV lots of times.
Except that when he tried it, only one person answered, and she wouldn’t let him in, even when he said he was there to see his grandmother.
Abandoning the bell panel, he started hunting for a service passage, and found it at the far end of the building. And on the back of the building, he found the same kind of fire escape he’d come down half an hour ago.
But the bottom of the ladder was way out of his reach. Then he saw a row of large, plastic garbage cans lined up along the back of the building. Recently emptied, their lids were lying next to them.
Dragging three of them over to the spot directly below the fire escape, he turned them upside down and lined them up next to each other, then stacked two more on the bottom three. The sixth one was harder, but he finally got it on top of the pyramid. Now, if he could just climb up, he was pretty sure he could reach the ladder.
The first step was easy, but he could feel the can teetering slightly under his feet. Steadying himself against the wall and trying to keep his weight balanced, he managed to climb up onto the second tier.
The ladder hung above him, and now he was sure that if he could just get onto the top garbage can, he could reach it. But if the whole pyramid collapsed under him—
Taking a deep breath, he pulled himself up so his belly was flat on the top can. Then he pulled his right knee up, tucking it under his body, following it with his left. Steadying himself as best he could against the wall, he straightened up so he was kneeling. Taking another deep breath, he lifted his right knee and put his foot on the can, then waited a moment while he gathered his strength. Finally he heaved himself upward and a moment later both his feet were flat on the bottom of the can, his hands on the wall. The makeshift pyramid wobbled, but didn’t collapse.
Reaching up, Ryan’s hands closed on the bottom rung of the fire escape’s ladder, and less than a minute later he was on the apartment building’s roof.
There was no gap at all between the roof he was on and the one next door — all he had to do was climb over the low ramparts of both buildings, and he was almost at his goal.
He found the roof door — an old-fashioned one, but with a lock that was different from the kind the doors The Rockwell had. He tried it, wasn’t surprised to find it locked, and began experimenting with the keys on the ring.
When none of them fit his heart sank, but then, as he was staring at the door — willing it to open, even though he knew it wouldn’t — he noticed a place where the paint on the wood frame was peeling away, and the wood beneath the paint was splitting. Pulling out the knife, he set to work. The wood, exposed to the weather for decades, was not only splitting, but decaying with dry rot as well. The deeper he dug the softer it became, and less than fifteen minutes later he was inside the building. But how was he going to find his mother?
The stairs from the roof led steeply down to a small landing, and below the landing there was a stairwell that went all the way down to the ground floor, with a landing at every floor.
He started down, and when he came to the next floor, found a door that opened onto a long hallway that was dimly lit by fixtures that hung on the wall every twenty feet or so. He stayed where he was, listening, but heard nothing. Finally he ventured out into the hall, moving quickly down its length, his feet making no sound at all on the carpeted floor.
A dozen doors opened off the hall, and each door bore the kind of little metal frame he’d seen on the drawers of the old-fashioned desks in the antique shop, that you could put a card into so you’d know what was in the drawer.
But none of the frames held any cards at all, and finally Ryan tried one of the doors. Finding it unlocked, he pushed the door open and peered inside. Enough light came in from the street outside that he could see a hospital bed, and a table, and a chest of drawers. But the bed was empty, and there was nothing on either the table or the chest.
