“Go.”
Theo dashes away, nearly crashing into a bearded man with a little girl sitting on his shoulders. He is out of sight in seconds. I check the time on my phone—4:18, even minute—and I speed in the opposite direction, into an airy labyrinth full of people’s relics for sale. I run past crates of old sneakers, crooked rows of smudged mirrors like a filthy funhouse, poles with floral pashminas that billow from a hidden fan, and buckets of seashells sold in tandem with paintbrushes.
The seashells are kind of cool, I guess, but they don’t really scream “Theo!”
A minute or so later, I hit a grid of the market that does speak Theo’s language. A dream catcher with a willow hoop dyed his favorite shade of green. An entire table of tiny ships inside bottles. He was recently reading up on their intricacies in the hopes of making one himself, except I know he wants his bottle to have a spaceship inside because he always has to put his Theo twist on things.
I still have all the time in the world—if the world only had twelve minutes to offer, at least. It’s too bad he’s not more of a fantasy fan, because the letter openers here are pretty boss and I’m sort of hoping he’s found this table already and will surprise me with one, preferably the one designed like a sword sheath or this one with the bone handle. It’s okay because I have all the time in the world . . . Actually, right now, no I don’t, because according to my phone, I only have nine minutes, an odd number that’s getting me really anxious, so I scratch my palm while running again. I somehow return to a world of more misses. Theo has no current use for breakfast-friendly pots and pans since he’s pretty happy eating bowls of cereal with orange juice, and he definitely doesn’t need gardening tools unless they come with instructions on how he can grow more video games and computer apps for free.
Then I hit the jackpot.
Puzzles.
I glance at my phone again: six minutes left. I’m no longer anxious; I’m excited. I know from being over at Theo’s enough that he doesn’t own any of these: a steampunk barn house gliding away on wings built of scraps from a satellite; Santa’s sleigh being pulled by dolphins underwater (I don’t want to know what’s in those wrapped gifts, but I’d also love to hear Theo’s guesses); a 3-D puzzle of a soccer ball, and the 3-D part is cool, but the sports part is less cool. I’m not sure where Theo stands on 3-D puzzles, but this doesn’t seem like the one “to kick it off”—ha.
Boom, got it. The fourth one in the row on the table: Doomed Pirate Ship. The pirates are being thrown overboard by stormy weather and a raging sea; some try to climb back up, while another hangs from the plank. I know Theo will create a kick-ass story behind this one. The vendor drops the puzzle in a brown plastic bag and even though it costs nine bucks, I just shove a ten into her hands and jet back.
Theo is waiting by the exit, pressed against the wall to hide away in the shade, like a vampire who stayed out too late—too early? I don’t blame him. We’re both sweating. He looks at his sundial watch. “Two minutes to spare! Let’s get the hell out of here before we go up in flames, or, worse, you get sunburn.”
On the way back to the subway, the only clue I have of his gift is a box. It’s a perfect cube. I have zero guesses as to what it is. Underground we’re hidden from the sun, but the mugginess of a crowded platform is unbearable in its own way, like we’ve set up camp at the top of a volcano and zipped our tent shut. We somehow survive the six-minute wait, and once the train opens its doors, we race to the corner bench and sit before a couple of college-age-looking guys can take the seats for themselves. The air conditioner is on full blast, and I feel more like myself.
“Presents?” Theo asks, pointing at my bag with finger guns.
“You finished shopping first, so you go first,” I say, inching my leg a little closer to his so our knees might accidentally touch.
“I’m not sure what kind of logic that is, but okay,” Theo says.
He gives me the little box and whatever is inside doesn’t weigh that much and slides back and forth as I toss it from hand to hand. I open it and pull out an ornament of none other than Ron Weasley, Harry Potter’s best friend.