“I know.” Henry stood and offered his hand. “One dance.”
Ling stared at Henry’s fingers, and then she grasped his hand and let him lead her to the floor. Mostly, they shuffled in place slowly, but it didn’t matter to Ling. She was dancing. It was almost as good as dream walking.
As they emerged onto snowy Barrow Street, Henry looked at Ling and asked, “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?” Ling asked.
“Yank your skirt hem down over your braces when somebody looks at you.”
“They’re ugly. People are bothered by them.”
“They’re not bothering me,” Henry said, and Ling unfurled another of her rare smiles.
“So you really don’t like girls?”
“I like girls very much. Just… not in the marrying way, if you follow.”
Ling nodded.
“More important, I like you, Miss Chan. Friends?”
“I suppose so.”
Henry smirked. “That was a very Ling Chan answer. If you ever give me a compliment, I might fall over dead. What’s the matter now? You’re frowning again.”
“Henry, could I show you something?”
“As long as you promise it doesn’t involve small children or yodeling.”
“Neither. But I do need you to come with me downtown. Unless you’re afraid?”
“Darlin’, I’m only afraid of bad reviews,” Henry said and flagged down a taxi.
On the ride downtown, Ling told Henry of her haunting dream about George Huang, and about her curious finding in the library on the Beach Pneumatic Transit Company.
“It was a real place—the first New York City subway. It opened in 1870, they stopped using it in 1873, and then it was sealed for good in 1875,” Ling said. “And Henry, the drawings of the station were remarkably close to what you and I see each night in the dream world.”
“The fountain? The piano?” Henry asked, and Ling nodded. “The goldfish?”
“Even the goldfish. And it was built beneath Devlin’s Clothing Store! So why is an old train station showing up each night in our dream walks?”
“You know how dreamscapes are—they’re a jumble of symbols, odd bits of mental string collected from our daily lives, and other people’s as well.”
“Yes, and like a river, they change constantly. But you asked the question first: Why do you and I keep returning to the same place, where the same sequence of events plays out in the same order, each night, like some sort of loop?”
“I did say that, didn’t I?” Henry mused, rubbing his chin. “That was very smart. I feel much better about my standing as a member of the imaginary science club now. All right—why? And what does it have to do with George, and with us?”
“That’s what I want to find out.”
The taxi stopped at City Hall Park. Henry paid the driver, and Ling showed Henry the grate by the water fountain. “This is where George took me that night. He led me here, very deliberately. And then he pointed to those buildings across the street. Do they seem familiar?”
Henry cocked his head and squinted at the block of Broadway between Murray and Warren. “If I’m not mistaken, it looks a bit like the street where we start our dream walk each night.”
“I believe it is.” Ling eased onto the park bench and loosened the straps on her braces, rubbing the soreness from the spots where the leather chafed. “That building on the corner of Warren and Broadway was where Devlin’s stood before it burned down.”
Henry sat beside her on the bench and stared at the new building occupying the corner now. It bore no resemblance to the one in their dreams. “So this spot is somehow connected to our dream each night, but we have no idea why, and George wants us to know… something about it.”