23
The sidewalk trembled under our feet—proof that a subway train was rumbling right beneath us.
Steam hissed up through the grates, wrapping itself around every kind of passerby: men in suits sprinting with coffees in hand, skateboard kids, women hauling canvas totes full of fresh produce.
A pretzel vendor shouted deals at a cab driver, who replied in honks.
Somewhere far off: sirens and squealing brakes.
Through all of it, Tess marched with military precision, her eyes scanning the horizon. I trailed behind, weaving between a guy shoving a dolly stacked with boxes and a woman arguing passionately with a ghost.
“Wait,” I said, trying to keep up. “Let me get this straight. We’re looking for… an injured animal?”
Tess, dead serious: “A needy animal. Injured is ideal. Desperate works too. The key is dramatic eyes.”
“Oh. And then what—drag it into the snobbiest hotel in New York and go, ‘Good afternoon, would you mind taking care of this?’”
“Exactly.”
I stopped dead. Right in front of us, a rat limped across the street, tail wagging like a bent antenna.
“There,” I said, pointing at the creature, drunk with inspiration. “That’s our guy. Go get him. Perfect.”
“It. Is. A. Rat,” Tess spat, horrified.
“So what? He’s injured. He’s urban. He’s realistic.”
“We are not walking into the Vellum with a rat. They’d toss us out before I could say ‘animal welfare.’ I want something tragic—but photogenic.”
She threw an arm in front of me, bodyguard-style. Beneath a scaffolding, between a forgotten paint bucket and a mound of construction dust, a gray-blue pigeon wobbled in search of crumbs. One wing drooped at a grotesque angle, like the snapped handle of an umbrella.
Tess’s eyes lit up with triumph. “Bea, look. That’s him. The chosen one.”
“Well, perfect. What do we call him?”
“Christopher. Christopher Columbus.”
She lowered her voice, flashing me a conspiratorial glance. “Now hand me the bag.”
“What? I’m not handing over my bag just so you can stuff a pigeon inside. That thing’s probably riddled with diseases. ”
“The only disease would be staying stuck in the mediocrity of our lives. Christopher is our golden ticket to Rimbaud. My purse is too small. Yours is perfect…”
I passed her the bag with the same resignation as a movie sidekick handing over a loaded gun, fully aware it would end badly.
I was drunk, and in a way, even the Vivienne Blaze inside my head was telling me to go along: the plot wasn’t going to write itself.
I transferred my phone, wallet, and notebook into my coat pockets like I was evacuating valuables before a hurricane.
Tess crouched under the scaffolding, moving slowly.
The pigeon, without even turning his head, felt her presence.
He lurched forward, flapping his one good wing like a busted oar.
Not fast enough. Tess lunged once—missed.
Tried again—missed again. On the third go, she scooped him tight against her chest.
“It’s okay, Christopher,” she whispered. “We’re saving your life. And you’re taking us straight to the heart of the system.”
I held the bag open, tilting my head back as if trying to avoid witnessing the moment my favorite accessory got downgraded into a birdcage. Tess slid him in. I zipped it shut halfway, too squeamish to seal it all the way.
“Now you carry it,” I said.
“Oh, for God’s sake. ”
I rolled my eyes. “Lord of the Animals, forgive us.”
And off we went toward the Vellum Hotel: Tess, eyes locked on the prize, and me—lugging a limping pigeon flapping inside my bag like a secret too big to hold.