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She followed the trio as they broke at last from the bubbling crowd, went down the block, and into a restaurant. For a moment, she stood gazing through one of the enormous windows, as the three removed their coats, handed them to a young woman, and were led by the maître d’ to a choice table. Their small movements were like that of a family—intimate, secure with each other. Her pride in Liis swelled once again, making her eyes enlarge with tears, and glow brighter than the blighted streetlights overhead. Her fingertips traced an unknown pattern on the icy glass.
Abruptly, she turned, stepped decisively away, placing herself within the safety of the holiday throng. The rhythmic sound of a Salvation Army bell ringer floated to her from farther down Broadway, packed so tightly with pedestrians she couldn’t see across to the east sidewalk. Boys shouted to one another, and a brief snowball fight erupted before an errant missile struck an old man in the back, and they ran away, laughing.
It’s life and life only, she thought. But it had nothing to do with her. She took out her mobile, blew on her fingertip to warm it, then pressed a speed-dial key. With the phone against her ear, she listened so intently her sense of the frenetic activity around her vanished. She might have been in a vacuum. Her body trembled.
A moment later, she was talking with the Somali Yibir. His name was Keyre. Every scar on her body resonated to the sound of his voice, set up a yearning like a tide irresistibly bearing her back into the past.
Moments later, she was a speck in the crowd. After that, she was gone.