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The locker room door opens, and Bobbie pokes her head inside.
“Ladies, you’re going to need to wrap this up,” she says. “I can’t stay out here all night. It’s getting packed out here, and someone’s going to take my cot if I’m not in it soon.”
Ingrid and I make our way out of the locker room into a shelter even more crowded than when we left it. Bobbie is right. All the cots have now been claimed. Many are occupied by people sleeping or reading or just staring off in silence. A few serve as makeshift social hubs, where groups of women sit in clusters to laugh and converse. It’s a loud and bustling place, which makes me understand why Ingrid stuck to bus and train stations. There’s safety in numbers.
For the two of us.
But there’s still one apartment sitter left at the Bartholomew. And he’s all alone.
That realization prompts another thought. One so awful it makes my heart beat like a snare drum in my chest.
I pull out my phone and swipe through my search history, returning to the lunar calendar I looked at earlier.
I type in this month.
I type in this year.
When the results appear, I gasp so loud it makes others in the shelter stop and stare. Ingrid and Bobbie close in around me, concerned.
“What’s wrong?” Ingrid says.
“I need to go.” I pull away from them, heading to the exit. “Stay with Bobbie. Trust no one else.”
Ingrid calls after me. “Where are you going?”
“The Bartholomew. I need to warn Dylan.”
In a matter of seconds, I’m out of the gymnasium, then out of the building, then out on the street, where the moon still glows bright and round.
It’s a full moon.
The second one this month.
A blue moon.
42
I take a cab back to the Bartholomew, even though I can’t afford it.
My wallet is empty.
So is my bank account.
But speed is the most important thing right now. I’ve allowed myself twenty minutes to get back to the Bartholomew, collect what I can, meet up with Dylan, and then get the hell out of there. No explanations. No goodbyes. Just in and out, dropping my keys in the lobby before I’m out the door.
Already I’m behind schedule. Traffic on Eighth Avenue is a slow crawl north. In five minutes, the cab’s traversed only two blocks. I sit in the back seat, fear and impatience forming a potent combination that has my entire body buzzing. My hand shakes as I grab my phone and call Dylan.
One ring.
The cab, which has been idling at a red light, surges forward the moment the light turns green.
Two rings.
We zip past another block.
Three rings.
Another block goes by. Sixteen more to go.