It smells like sweat and urine, and I try not to breathe as we walk all the way to the end of the platform. Up ahead is a wall and some stairs that disappear down onto the tracks. Wes looks over his shoulder, but there are only a few people standing near the turnstiles and none of them are paying us any attention. He quickly hops down the steps. I take his hand and follow him into the underground subway system.
It is even hotter down here, like black pavement in summer that spent all day in the sun. Sweat gathers along the back of my neck. I want to fan myself, but I also don’t want to let go of Wes’s hand—the only thing guiding me through the dark.
We travel along the edge of the tracks, on a narrow stretch of dirt close to the wall of the tunnel. There are tall black columns every few feet, and we skirt around them as we walk.
“As long as we stick to the right side we’re fine,” Wes whispers to me. “The third rail is the only one that’s electrified.”
“What happens if a train comes?”
“We die.”
His words startle a laugh out of me, and the sound echoes through the enclosed passageways. “I seriously hope you’re kidding.”
I can hear the smile in his voice as he says, “Don’t worry. If a train comes, we’ll have enough room to squeeze against the wall and wait it out.”
He stops talking as we reach a fork in our path, where the rails twist in different directions. “Careful. There are some live wires here.”
A dim yellow bulb overhead sheds a small amount of light onto the ground. It’s not much, but I can see Wes’s feet as he steps around the interlocking metal rails. I slowly trace his path, using his hand to steady myself.
After a few more minutes of walking, we come upon a door set in the wall not far from the tracks. It is rusted and partially falling off its hinges. Wes pulls it open enough for me to squeeze through, and I crawl into a long, skinny room covered in graffiti and grime. The air smells sour and heavy. There’s a small, faint light set high in the ceiling and another door at the far end.
Wes enters the space behind me, and he quickly strides to the opposite door. He grabs the rusted handle but looks back at me before pushing it open.
I stop in the middle of the hallway, watching him. “Are you okay?”
“I haven’t been here in a long time.”
“How long?”
His knuckles are white on the metal door handle. “Not since I came back for my watch. That was over four years ago.”
“There’s no one living here anymore?”
“No, they all abandoned it years ago.”
“Were there a lot of you?” I edge closer to him.
“A few of us. We looked out for each other. I don’t know what happened to them.” He sounds a little too casual, like he’s trying very hard not to show that he cares.
I am finally close enough to reach out and touch his hand.
His fingers spasm, probably with how hard he’s gripping the handle. I meet his eyes and hold them as I push gently on both our hands. The door swings open slowly.
I wait until Wes breaks our gaze, his dark eyes scanning the small room. He is in a daze as he enters—it is one of the few times I have seen him act without those careful movements.
The room is almost empty, with piles of dirty blankets in one corner and an overturned chair lying in the middle of the floor. The walls are made of large, old bricks, some of them falling out and breaking into dust.
Wes kicks at the blankets and something inside squeaks. I jump back as a large rat scurries out and disappears into a hole in the wall. Wes keeps his back to me, and I wonder if he’s ashamed that this is where he came from.
I want to tell him he doesn’t need to be, but I don’t know how to say the words.
He crouches down and rifles through the pile. “Here,” he whispers, pulling something out and holding it out to me. It’s an old and stained comic book. I take it from him carefully. “Batman, February nineteen eighty-three,” I read. “Wes, you’ve been holding out on me. I didn’t know you were a comic-book nerd.”
He smiles. “I liked them. Never had any money though. I stole that one.” He says it defensively. “I must have read it a hundred times.”
I trace the picture of Batman fighting a clone of himself on the cover. Struggle as hard as you want, Batman—you can never defeat yourself, it says.
“It was one of the only other things I had that was mine.” I look up. Wes has moved in that silent way of his, and he’s standing next to me now, staring down at the comic in my hands. “Aside from my watch.”
I touch the metal pendant that’s hanging against my chest. “Do you want it back?” I ask softly.
He raises his eyebrows. “No. I wanted you to have it. That’s why I gave it to you.”
“Good. I’m getting attached.”
He smiles again and takes the comic book back from me. “I missed this. I missed being here. Weird, right?”
I glance around the small space. It’s cooler here, away from the heat-generating trains, but it still feels like a coffin—dark, windowless, and buried far beneath the ground. But if it was the only home you ever knew . . .
I move into him until my shoulder meets his chest. “I think it’s great. I’m glad you brought me here.”
His face is serious as he says, “Me too.”
I smile, and he clears his throat. “We should get going, though.”
“Okay.” I have no idea how late
