“Nine. Ends with one nine.”
“Oh, okay, hold on.” She taps delete a couple of times and retypes numbers on the touchscreen. “There, sent. When you have battery, respond to my text so I know you got it.”
“That’s great,” I say. “Now I have your number, and you have mine. If fate should have it, we’ll talk again.”
“Ha, ha,” she says, shaking her head.
“Or I’ll decide to text you back. I guess we’ll see.”
Once again, she bumps me with the side of her arm. I still don’t mind it. “You’re gathering quite the souvenirs. Top secret photo of a hidden gem, a snow globe keychain, more memories than you’ll probably remember…”
“There’s no way I’m forgetting tonight,” I say. It’s the truth.
She pulls up her own scarf over half her face, covering a grin. “Did you ever have any favorite spots when you were a kid?”
I shift on the cold metal bench. “Me? Oh. I lived with my Gong Gong for most of the year growing up. It was mostly just him and me.”
“When your parents traveled?” she asks.
“Exactly. They were away for work a lot.”
She nods. “And his house was your Spot?”
I tilt my head down. “That’s a nice way to put it. It was my hideaway, my favorite spot, my literal home away from home.”
“Were you given a pet as a distraction?” she asks.
“I wish. I think my parents worried something like that would’ve fallen on their shoulders when they were home, so it wasn’t even an option.”
“When I pass dogs on the streets, sometimes I’ll pretend they’re mine and walk side by side with them for a block or two until it gets weird,” Rooney admits.
I’m amused by this mental picture.
Yellow light from a window in the building next door streams down into Rooney’s Spot. The light plays off the sharp edge of the “X.”
“You’re into art,” I say, changing the topic.
Her lips form into a subdued smile. “I’m interested in the ways people choose to creatively express themselves.”
“That’s a fancy way of saying yes.” I think for a moment. “There’sa Red Thread of Fate–inspired art installation I think you might like. Not sure if you’ve heard of it.”
Rooney’s grin flatlines. “What? You saw… an installation?”
“It was near the print shop,” I inform her, gesturing above us. I have no idea which way is uptown or downtown. “We can go now. But it might be too dark to see it.” I check my watch.
“Oh, uh, that’s okay,” she says, her voice an octave higher. “I’ll check it out.”
“Okay. Yeah. I hope you will,” I say.
A few seconds pass before Rooney glances up at me. Her face has noticeably brightened. “Jack, have you ever heard of The Dumpling Hours?”
Chapter 8
JACK
Follow me,” Rooney instructs after we emerge from the subway station.
“I don’t know if I want to follow you anymore. Was that a rat in the subway car?” I ask, willing myself to shake off the thought.
