SIXTY-FIVE
THOMAS burst into the narrow alley, the white van right there in front of him, filling the space between buildings. He had to blink a couple of times until his eyes adjusted to the darkness, then looked in both directions, figuring out instantly which was the way to the street. He ran for it.
He came out of the alley, turned right for no other reason than that was what his instinct told him to do, and kept on running, past a bike shop, a tailor’s, other businesses. But he wasn’t paying much attention to them. All he could think was that he had to get away, he had to get away as fast as he could, and he had to get help.
Ordinarily, he would have known instantly where he was, but there were two things working against him. First, he was in a state of panic. And second, it was night. Whirl360’s images of the world were all taken during the day.
The first couple of blocks he was running almost flat out, but for someone who’d spent years and years sitting in his bedroom at the computer without ever going outside for exercise, it was pretty impossible to keep up the pace.
So Thomas eased back from a gallop to a brisk walk. He made a number of random turns along the way. A left turn at this cross street. A right turn at the next.
Get away get away get away.
He reached a point where he had to stop. He leaned over, put his palms on his knees, and caught his breath. He was wheezing and his chest hurt.
He straightened up, wandered around in a couple of wind-down circles, and then, once he had his wind back, looked around. Even though it was dark, there were enough streetlights to focus in on things, see storefronts, read street signs.
On one corner, Stromboli Pizza, with some words written on the wall: “This moment is more precious than you think.” Next to it, some place offering vegetarian food. Across the street, a shoe store with all kinds of different sneakers in the window.
Without looking up at the street signs, Thomas said, “St. Marks Place and First Avenue.”
Then he allowed himself to look at the sign, saw that he was right.
“I know where I am,” he said aloud. “I know where this is.”
A short man with shoulder-length hair was strolling past at the time and said, “Good for you.”
Thomas, too mesmerized by his surroundings, took no notice of the man.
“This is New York,” Thomas said. “This is Manhattan. I know where I am.”
He walked over to the pizza restaurant, went right up to the glass, and touched it with the tips of his fingers.
He could feel it.
Thomas could feel the glass beneath his fingers.
He saw something in that window, something he had never seen before, not in any of the world’s cities that he had explored.
He saw his reflection.
Whirl360 had never been like this. He’d been able to see the homes and storefronts and signs and benches and mailboxes. He could even zero in on them, enlarge them for close examination. But he could only imagine what these items felt like to the touch.
He smelled something.
Bread cooking. Dough. Pizza dough. It was too late for the restaurant to be open, but there were lingering aromas.
It smelled so good. So delicious. Thomas realized it had been a long time since he’d had anything to eat. He’d never been able to smell the things he saw when he was on the computer.
Behind him, a truck rumbled past. Thomas spun around, watched it head up First Avenue. Here, the trucks moved, made noises. The people walked. And their faces weren’t blurred.
His Whirl360 world was noiseless. Odorless. Nothing to touch.
Thomas marveled at everything around him. Standing here, at the corner of First and St. Marks Place, was like being inside his computer monitor, but even more real. This was amazing.
For the first time, he thought of all the other places he had been. All around the world. Tokyo. Paris. London. Mumbai. San Francisco. Rio de Janeiro. Sydney. Auckland. Cape Town.
What would it be like to be in those places, to physically be there? To actually feel the streets beneath your feet? To smell these places? To hear their sounds?
It filled him with a sense of wonder.
It was almost enough to make him forget what he had to do. But not quite.
“Ray,” he said under his breath. “I have to help Ray.”
But how was he going to do that?
He didn’t see any police cars around, and he didn’t see any phone booths. And even if he did see one, he had no money on him. No change, no bills, no wallet full of credit cards. Thomas didn’t even own a credit card. Wouldn’t know the first thing about using one.
“Taxi!”
Thomas looked up the street, at a man who’d raised his arm in the air to attract the attention of someone driving one of those yellow cars. The man hopped in and the yellow car took off.
Thomas didn’t have a cell phone, either. If he did, he could call the police, he supposed. But Ray always carried a cell phone, and their father had had one, and Julie had one, so it seemed safe to assume that most people carried them. Any number of these people walking by on the street probably carried them.
Two teenage girls, their arms linked as if to support one another as they teetered along on their high heels, were coming from the south.
“Excuse me,” Thomas said, putting himself directly in their path. “I bet you have cell phones. Could I borrow one to call 911?”
The girls stopped abruptly, blinked. Thomas thought they seemed frightened about something. They unlinked arms and went quickly around him on each side, one muttering, “Creep.”
Thomas guessed they must not have had phones, so he tried stopping two other people. The first was an old man in tattered clothes who was intensely interested in the contents of a trash can. He seemed more interested in the half cup of coffee he’d found than in helping Thomas. The other person was a middle-aged woman who clutched her purse more tightly to her bosom and quickened her step when Thomas asked for her phone.
Maybe no one in New York had cell phones. Thomas wished Julie were here to help him. He liked Julie. Julie would know what to do.
But how could he get in touch with her? Even if he had a phone, he didn’t know her number. So what could-
Wait a second.
Julie had a sister who lived in the city. She had a place that sold cupcakes. What did Julie say her name was? Candace? That was it. And her store was called Candy’s Cupcakes. Julie had said Candace lived above her shop.
On West Eighth.
Thomas closed his eyes for a second. He could see it. The window filled with baked goods. The red-and- white-striped awning. The couple of wrought-iron table and chair sets out front on the sidewalk.
Thomas bet if he could find Candace, she’d know how to get in touch with Julie.
Now he just had to get to West Eighth.
Thomas looked up the street, saw another one of those yellow cars approaching. So he walked out into the street, right into the middle of the lane, put both hands into the air, and shouted, “Taxi!”
The driver hit the brakes and the car screeched to a halt.
“You some kind of fucking nut?” the cabbie shouted.
Thomas walked up to the driver’s window. “Sir, I need you to take me to Candy’s Cupcake shop on West Eighth Street in New York City.”
