He wipes one hand against the other. “Do you need help?” I ask, each word coming out as if I’ve never said them before, because I’m not sure what to say or do. “No, I’m totally fine. But I have a feeling you might need help, Aria.” He gestures to the long stretch of sidewalk in front of us, the ribbon of concrete that lies between us and the tip of Manhattan island. “Ah, but isn’t it freeing to be able to go for an evening stroll?” There’s envy in his words. I’m not sure I should go for a walk with him, seeing as he’s emerged—though unscathed—from a grate. But in some weird way I feel as if I know him, even though we only talked that one time in the hall. Besides, he’s not the picture of a boy who’d be scrapping around underground. He’s the picture of the boys in fashion magazines, the ones with sculpted bones, smooth skin, and smoldering eyes, who wear clothes as if the clothes should be lucky to be so close to their flesh. Boys who have that enigmatic sense of where they’re from—they don’t tell; they’re just not from here.
