A truck stops behind us. The driver hops out, clipboard in hand. “Delivery for Paul.”
Paul frowns. “Didn’t order anything.”
The guy wheels a dolly toward us, stacked with three large, clear bins. The labels are neat, printed in all caps:PHOTO ALBUMS – ARCHIVAL STORAGE. HANDLE WITH CARE.
I crouch beside them, tapping one lid. “Looks like somebody wanted to make sure your memories don’t get lost in the shuffle.”
Paul leans forward, squinting, then shakes his head with a sigh. “Claudia.”
That catches me off guard. “Claudia?”
He nods. “She and Savannah came by this morning as I was looking through old albums.” He rubs a hand over his jaw, the gesture tired but fond.
“Guess she wanted them persevered,” I say, though he already knows it.
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I like her paying for something I should’ve handled myself.”
I rest my hand on one of the bins. “Then don’t. I’ll make sure she gets it back.”
He gives me a long look, the kind that says he wants to argue but knows better. “You’ll insult her if you do it outright.”
“I won’t,” I tell him. “She’ll never know it came from me.”
That earns the faintest twitch of a smile. “A goalie with a soft spot.”
The movers start callingfrom the truck, asking which boxes go where. I grab one of the bins and motion for them to follow. “Let’s get those albums packed up and over to the Puck Pad. They’ll be safe there.”
“You sure you don’t mind helping an old man move?”
I glance over at him, a smile tugging at my mouth. “You’re not old, Paul. You’re legacy with a heartbeat.”
He chuckles and shakes his head as we head for the truck. “Legacy, huh? Damn, kid, you should put that on a plaque somewhere.”
“Maybe I will,” I say, loading the bins carefully onto the seat beside me. “Right next to your albums.”
He doesn’t say anything to that, but when I glance over, his hand’s resting on the lid of the nearest bin like he’s anchoring something only he can feel.
He nods once, “Let’s do this.”
A couple of hours later, I see Nalani, Claudia, and Savannah walking down the road toward the Brownstone, just as the movers are loading up the last of their things.
I spot them before they see me—two figures cutting through the late afternoon crowd like they belong to it already. Claudia’s hairs wind-tossed, and her cheeks flushed. Nalani’s beside her, sunglasses perched high on her head, talking with her hands like she’s telling her a story.
They look… alive. Not the careful kind of alive you fake for other people, but the messy, real kind that comes fromjustbeingin the city too long—sweaty, loud, overstimulated, and grinning about it.
“Those girls,” Paul huffs as he sits down on the stoop. “They did the bridge walk.”
“No shit?” I ask, and he shakes his head.
As they get closer, I notice Claudia keeps stretching her neck, that subtle roll of her shoulders that says she’s sore but proud of it. She’s holding a paper cup, and a little white bakery bag swings from her wrist like a victory flag.
They stop at the corner, waiting for the light, and the late sun hits them just right. Claudia laughs at something Nalani says—one of those deep, unguarded laughs she doesn’t often let slip. It catches me off guard. For a second, she doesn’t look tired. Or burdened. Or cautious. Just…young.
They smile when they see us, both with a post-walk glow.
“You two walked from the Brooklyn Bridge?” Paul asks.
Nalani grins, hands on her hips. “That was theplan,technically. The real plan was to stop here, pack up the truck, andpretendwe have enough energy left to walk it back.”
