I take a dollar bill and show Charity the basics: tear a corner, move the bill, make the pieces still match. No theatrics. Just the bones of the craft.
"Want to learn one?" I ask, voice low.
She nods like she’s agreeing to something that matters.
"Here." I stand behind her and guide her hands the way you teach someone to hold a bow, not a blade. "Anchor your left thumb. Right hand does the lying. Soft fingers, not claws. If you tense, they see the secret."
Her breath staggers when my chest brushes her shoulder. I pretend I don’t notice because pretending is sometimes kindness. We move together: turn, slide, press. The corner that was in her right hand is now under her left thumb. She gasps—quiet, but delighted, like a sparkler catching.
"I did it," she whispers.
"You did."
"Again?"
We do it again until the paper softens, and the lie becomes muscle memory. The room fades. The hum of other people’s miracles becomes a soundtrack, not adistraction. Her scent—expensive perfume mixed with city air and possibility—fills the small space between us.
By the time we climb back into the night, a little of the city has soaked into her posture. Shoulders looser. Eyes wider but not wild. We pass a couple arguing under a scaffolding. Pass a man sleeping with his backpack clutched to his chest. Pass a woman, her dog in a sweater tucked under her arm, and she glares at us like we owe her a sidewalk tax. New York: pay with your attention or get fined with regret.
Back at the cottage, Lucky greets us with a thump-thump-thump of his tail and a huff like we missed curfew. Charity sinks to the floor, and the dog folds himself against her shins like she’s his favorite piece of furniture. I clean up the small mess—a glove by the door, an empty bowl, the rubber bands that fell out of my pocket before we left.
"Homework," I say, leaning a hip on the counter. "You need three things on you at all times. A charged phone. A MetroCard with money on it. And a little emergency cash."
"How much is ‘a little’?" She’s serious, like I’ve assigned her to guard a gate.
"Hundred," I say. "Two fifties. Or five twenties if you want to be annoying. Big bills make you a target."
She nods, tucks it away like gospel. "I can do that."
"Where?"
She blinks. "In my… bag?"
"Phone case," I say. "Lined pocket. Never in the outer pocket of a purse." I point to her messenger bag. "That’sa billboard for thieves." Who am I to lecture when I lost my bankroll to a pickpocket?
"Right." She breathes it out. "Phone, MetroCard, small cash. No billboards."
"And shoes you can run in."
She looks down at her sneakers. "Shoes I can run in."
We set a loose plan for tomorrow: general exploration by day and something special by night. If the weather holds, a pop-up show under the bridge; if it doesn’t, a late-night dumpling place that will change how she feels about being alive. She yawns mid-sentence and tries to hide it. Lucky yawns in solidarity. The cottage breathes. For a second, I pretend this is normal—woman, man, dog, quiet.
"Sleep," I tell her.
"Bossy," she says, smiling.
"Alive," I counter.
She goes, braid bouncing over one shoulder. I crash on the couch because the bed feels too much like a decision I’m not ready to make. The coin tries to roll across my knuckles. I stop it, pick up a rubber band instead, and practice what I preached. Soft fingers, not claws. Secrets, not lies.
Tomorrow we'll explore more of her city. Tomorrow she'll learn even more about mine. For tonight, I let thoughts of her lull me toward sleep, Lucky's warmth at my feet, and the impossible thought that maybe this could be home.
Chapter Eleven
Draco
Morning arrives with autumn sunlight and Charity's knock on the cottage door, earlier than expected, eyes bright with the kind of determination I'm learning means she's got plans. "Ready for today's lesson?" I ask. Her grin is answer enough.
