We both laugh, but then her smile softens, the marker tapping against her lip. “When it rains, we have buckets in the reading room. That roof matters.”
"I step closer, twirling the edge of a loose page between my fingers. “We’ll fix it. Let the internet gossip—when the roof’s done and the literacy programs are running, they’ll see we turned the attention into something good.”
Her shoulders relax a notch. She sets the marker down, looks up at me—really looks, the way you study a rare first edition to make sure it’s authentic. “Thank you,” she says, voice quiet in the fluorescent half-light.
***
We step out of the library’s staff door into the cool, early-evening hush of Lexington Avenue. Nora hugs a stack of flyers to her chest; I roll the extras into a thin tube and tap it against my thigh like a drumstick. Melody’s crooked-ear photo stares up at me from every sheet—part guilty plea, part royal decree.
“Route?” I ask.
Nora consults her mental map the way I check setlists. “Three blocks north to the vet clinic, cut east to the coffee shop with the sad jazz playlists, then south to the laundromat that hosts the community board.”
“Copy that.” I offer her my elbow in mock formality. “Shall we, Ms. Davidson?”
She slips her arm through mine, warmth bleeding straight through her blazer into my skin. First stop is Hudson Paws Veterinary; the waiting-room smells like antiseptic and wet dog. The receptionist—purple hair, nose ring—recognizes me instantly, then pretends not to, clearly more excited about the kitten than the rockstar. “Folded ear? Adorable,” she coos, pinning the flyer dead center on the cork board. “We’ll spread the word.”
Back outside, Nora exhales a relieved breath cloud. “One down.”
We tape another flyer to a lamppost—wind whips it sideways; Nora’s hair follows. I hold the paper while she smooths the tape, her fingers brushing mine. The contact is brief but my body records it like a permanent tattoo.
We duck into Mr. Morales’s corner bodega, the air heavy with fried plantains and scratch-off dust. He clocks the flyer in Nora’s hand and starts to wave her off—countertop space is sacred territory here. I switch to Spanish, compliment his fresh conchas, and buy three before he can finish the first no. By the time we’re done chatting about Guadalajara bakeries, Melody’s mug sits next to the Powerball numbers and Mr. Morales is forcing a tamarind soda into my hand “for the kitten’s abuelos.”
Nora nudges me outside. “Smooth.”
“Sweet bread diplomacy,” I tell her, handing over a concha as proof.
At a bus stop, two elderly women—identical quilted coats, needlework swords flashing—perch on the bench like royal guards. Nora starts the pitch, but I kneel so I’m level with their knitting. “Ladies, can you serve on the grand jury of cuteness?” I lay the flyer on yarn the color of spring grass. They ooh, ask if I’m “that loud singer.” I admit guilt, praise their cable stitches, and leave with a promise they’lltrumpet Melody’s face at Sunday bridge. One slips me a butterscotch “for your lovely voice, dear.” My ears actually burn.
On 5th Street Vinyl a bearded clerk freezes mid-inventory when I walk in—eyes saucer-wide. Instead of signing sleeves, I wander to an unplugged Fender Twin, talk tube warmth and Hendrix bootlegs. Five minutes later the guy’s framing Melody’s flyer like it’s a platinum record.
Our stack of flyers disappears fast.
Outside a bakery, three middle-school girls vibrate at frequencies bats can probably hear. Selfie, phone-case autograph, the usual. I hand them each a flyer and ask for hashtag help. They chant #FindMelody, promise global domination, and I reward the ringleader with the last concha from my bag. Sugar diplomacy works on every age.
We round the corner toward the subway; Nora shakes her head, half laugh, half disbelief. “Professional charmer.”
“People are nice if you give them a reason,” I shrug—feeling a little shy at the praise.
“And free pastries,” she adds.
“Strategic carbs,” I correct, slipping our final flyer into her tote. “One left—let’s find a good spot for it.”
She salutes with a roll of tape and we find the perfect spot at a nearby tree.
Walking back toward the subway, Nora’s stride slows. “Think it’ll work?”
“Somebody will see that ear,” I promise, lifting the empty roll like a mic. “And then Melody will have to find a new scratching post.”
“And you’ll get your jacket back,” she adds.
“Yeah,” I agree half-heartedly, and something seizes in my chest at the thought.I’m not even sure I want it back.
Nora tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and glances up at me. “Can I ask you something if you promise not to dodge with a joke?”
“Of course.” I sober, adrenaline cooling under my leather collar.
“Where’s the bad boy?” she asks softly. “The guy I keep reading about in the papers? Because I just watched you sweet-talk a bodega owner, kneel for elderly knitters, and sign scuffed phone cases like it was your day job. It doesn’t add up.”
