I turn my head to look out the window. We pass a convenience store. The cars lined up by the gas pumps are all lower and longer than what I’m used to. They’re sharper too, without the rounded edges that make modern cars look like oversized bugs, and the colors are duller—beige, gray, a faded blue.
I feel something move over my finger. It’s so light that I think it must be a spider crawling on my skin. I jerk my head to the side, ready to swat it away. Only it’s not a spider, it’s Wes. He is resting his hand next to mine, so that the very tips of our pinkies touch.
I look down at our hands, then up at him. He’s facing straight ahead, his expression empty. It’s a look that used to scare me; he seemed so removed and closed off. But now I bite my bottom lip in an effort not to smile and I turn back to the window, hyper aware of the small place where our skin meets.
The sun is starting to set when I finally see the New York City skyline on the horizon. It is far enough away that it looks like a postcard: the buildings in lower Manhattan tower over the harbor, where clouds etched with purple wrap around the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island.
My eyes are caught by something in the sky. Above all the other buildings, I can see the twin shapes of the World Trade Center.
I make a noise in my throat, and Wes gives me a warning look. I press my lips together to stay silent, though I don’t tear my gaze away. I’ve seen pictures of what New York looked like with those two towers, but I’ve never seen them in person.
I can’t help thinking about what’s destined to happen here in twelve years, and I want to stop this van and grab a random person on the street and warn them. I know I can’t, though. The knowledge that there’s nothing I can do, no way I can help, is like a lead ball in my stomach.
We keep driving west through Queens and over the Kosciuszko Bridge. Brooklyn appears in front of us, a sprawling mass of low buildings and factories. Large smokestacks line the highway, pumping black clouds into the sky. We pass an apartment complex that is falling in on itself. It is like a skeleton: the exposed steel frame is its broken arms and legs, the hollowed-out windows its empty eye sockets.
Since New York City is only a few hours away from Montauk, Hannah and I used to take the train in for the day to go shopping or hang out around St. Marks Place. We’d buy cheap jewelry in the crowded shops or books from the street vendors. We were usually home before dark; my grandfather always worried about me spending too much time in the city alone.
But I have never seen New York like this.
We drive over the Williamsburg Bridge into Manhattan. The structure is made of beams so intricately placed they look more like lace than metal. Every surface is covered in graffiti, brightly colored names and pictures that overlap one another.
On the other side, we merge onto the highway that runs along the East River. Traffic is light, and it doesn’t take us long to reach our exit. We drive under a small overpass, and I see the rounded, prone shapes of people lying beneath torn blankets and newspapers. It is almost like a village in this hidden place—ripped pieces of cloth form walls and ceilings, attached to overturned shopping carts and cardboard boxes.
A pair of street signs says 125 ST and MALCOLM X BLVD. Harlem. We pass the Apollo Theater, the red letters glowing on a muted yellow background. Our driver turns left on Fredrick Douglass Boulevard. Every other building has blackened or boarded-up windows. I can see a group of teenagers break-dancing on the corner. A crowd has formed around them, and everyone claps to the music pouring out of a boom box.
Soon the streets become cleaner, narrower. The buildings seem taller, made of gray stone and curling Baroque cornices, and there are fewer people lining the sidewalks.
Central Park starts to the left of us, and tall green trees tangle together above the stone wall bordering it. This far north the park is wilder, with no carefully manicured lawns and ice-skating rinks.
The driver pulls over near 100th Street and Central Park West. Wes and I both step out onto the sidewalk. The second the door shuts behind us, the van pulls away.
It is not yet fully dark, though the streetlamps have come on, sending a warm glow onto the pavement. I glance up at the large stone buildings above us. It seems an odd place for a government facility to be.
“Is this the Center?” I whisper to Wes. There is no reason for me to be so quiet—we’re practically alone on the street. But after the hushed, secretive environment of the Facility, it feels strange to speak freely.
He smiles slightly. “No. It’s over there.”
I look to where he’s pointing. “Over there? You mean Central Park? Are you kidding?”
“No. It’s under the park. There’s an entrance at One hundred and sixth Street.”
“But . . . that’s . . .” I sputter.
“Crazy, right?” He smiles fully this time and I see the dimple in his cheek. It’s the first time I’ve seen it since 1944, and I smile back at him.
“Have you heard of the Central Park Conspiracy?” he asks.
I nod. “They created a huge underground city. I remember Grant talking about it. It’s supposed to be up to seven hundred acres and was used to hide all kinds of government officials. Even Hitler. They think
