I stared at the unencumbered gate for a very long time. I could almost imagine that I’d forgotten where I locked it, if not for the neatly printed note an officer had left on the fence where my bicycle had once rested. Bicycle, color rust and black, confiscated by the New York Police Department. For retrieval, please come to Headquarters (240 Centre Street). “Goddamnit!” I said, and as that seemed entirely too mild for the occasion, concluded with the solid, venerable, “Fuck.” “I always know life is about to get interesting when Zephyr starts to curse,” said a voice behind me. My heart stuttered. I had wondered if he would find me today. “Did you come to gloat, o prince?” Amir put his hand on my shoulder; I let it linger longer than I should. “Never,” he said, with uncharacteristic solemnity. “You know I’d help if you would let me.” “How about I wish for a new bicycle?” “Really?” He seemed torn between horror and amusement. I snorted. “Not really. Something tells me that I’d end up crushed under a mountain of them if I wished now.”
