The dream changed. Now Ling found herself in City Hall Park. George floated just above a metal grate beside a drinking fountain. He pointed to a row of buildings behind her. Ling turned back to George, and he fell like rain through the bars of the grate. She crawled onto the grate to look for him and it gave way, plunging her down and down into the darkness.
She was inside the train station. The old sign was there—BEACH PNEUMATIC TRANSIT COMPANY—but rot raced along the walls, the decay taking over, devouring the dream’s beauty. Light trembled against the velvety dark of the tunnel like a handful of firecrackers tossed up on Chinese New Year, and in those brief flashes, Ling saw pale blots of form. Eyes. Ravenous mouths. Sharp teeth. There was an ominous insectlike chorus, growing louder.
George’s glow was unsteady now, as if he were a Christmas light winking out. He moved his lips as if trying to speak. It seemed to require a tremendous effort. Each time he tried, more sores appeared on his body. Behind him, the dark crackled and crawled with faulty radiance, and the filthy hole filled with animalistic shrieks and growls and broken ends of words, a great roaring wave of terrifying sound curling up into an obliterating crest.
Ling’s legs shook with terror. She could not move. In a strobe of light, the veiled woman appeared, her dress dripping with blood as she walked. She was coming up behind George, and Ling wanted to warn him about the things in the dark and the woman, but she could only choke on her fear. George Huang stood his ground even as the sores multiplied, spreading across his chest and up his neck, burning his skin down to the bone in spots. He fought the pain.
And just before the crawling, hungry wave reached him, George choked out his words at last: “Ling Chan—Wake. Up.”
Ling woke in her bed. Desperately, she swallowed down air. On the other side of her window, the winter moon was full and bright. The only sound she heard now was her pulse thumping wildly in her head. She was safe. She was fine. It had just been a bad dream.
Only when Ling settled back against the pillow did she realize that she clutched George’s prized track medal.
The crowded bus was standing room only as it lurched down Fifth Avenue across steaming manhole covers, dodging New Yorkers bundled up against the stiff winter wind, but Henry was jolly. He gripped the hand loop and whistled “Rivière Rouge” to the amusement of two young girls giggling in the seats below him, and to the annoyance of the driver, who barked that he could either whistle or walk, his choice.
“I can hum it, if you’d prefer,” Henry answered merrily.
“Out!” the driver said, stopping the bus ten blocks shy of Henry’s destination.
“You’ll be sorry when I’m famous,” Henry said. He waved to the still-giggling girls at the window and carried on.
Nothing could dampen his good mood, not even the long wait for the ticket agent at Grand Central Terminal. As he watched the hustle and bustle around him, Henry tried to imagine Louis’s expression as he stood for the first time beside the lighted ball of the Grand Central clock, surrounded by more people than he had ever seen on the riverboats. Louis was finally coming to New York. They could be together. That thought buoyed Henry further as he approached the ticket agent’s window.
“I need one ticket from New Orleans, Louisiana, to Grand Central Terminal, please,” Henry said.
“You want the New York and New Orleans Limited,” the ticket agent said.
“N’awlins Lim’ted, speed my baby down the track, my love won’t wait till he… she gets back,” Henry sang softly, making up the words on the spot.
“You want a ticket or a booking agent, kid?”
Henry handed over the collection of crumpled bills he’d taken from Theta’s coffee-can piano fund. She’d be pretty sore when she found out he’d dipped into it. But he’d promised Louis a ticket, and besides, Theta would want him to be happy. She’d understand. The piano fund could be rebuilt in a few months’ time, and all would be forgiven.
“You need a return ticket?” the agent asked.