“Americans,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Ledi shrugged. “But seriously though, I hope you have traveler’s insurance because there’ve been some derailments lately.”

Jamal’s head whipped toward her. “Wait, what?”

A gust of warm air carried the familiar subterranean scent that preceded the rumble and screech of the train as it pulled into the station, then a rectangular steel car emblazoned with a circle of blue and white appeared. Jamal made a perplexed grunt.

“It looks like the trains in movies, but . . . the movies I watched as a child. I imagined they’d be more modern by now,” he said as it pulled to a stop in front of them.

One crowded car passed, but the one pulling up before them was empty, which set off Ledi’s subway sense. She grabbed him again and jogged to the next car down, which held a good number of people but wasn’t sardine-can packed.

“Why did we run?” he asked. “More rats?”

“Maybe. Never get on the empty train car when the ones on either side are full,” she explained. “That means that something not okay is going on in there. The doors between train cars are locked sometimes, and you don’t want to be trapped in a car with rats, random human excretions, or something worse.”

“Why do I feel like I’m navigating some kind of dystopian nightmare instead of one of the most famous cities in the world?” Jamal asked with an incredulous laugh. He was smiling that big smile of his again, like they were on an adventure, and Ledi’s stomach fluttered in a way she couldn’t blame on the rickety train. His fingers curved around the train pole, and heat stroked through her as she remembered the press of them into her body. She looked away. They were just two friends out for a day at the park. It didn’t matter that he had seen her O face, had touched the embarrassing underwear she’d been forced to wear because a neighbor had been hogging the building’s shared laundry room.

She glanced at him and realized he was studying her face.

“One fun thing you learn when you study Public Health, especially infectious diseases, is that most societies are one step away from dystopia, really,” she said, trying to sound deep and like she hadn’t been thinking about their trip to fingerbangville.

“You really know how to put a man at ease,” he said. “Next you’ll tell me the mole people who live in the subway tunnels are real.”

Ledi widened her eyes in mock horror, looked around the car, and then leaned closer to him. “Someone told you the mole people weren’t real? Oh you poor little lamb. You don’t stand a chance.”

He leaned closer, too. “I’d say my chances are pretty good. I’m quite lucky, you see, at least in my choice of shepherdess.”

The stale air of the train car caught in Ledi’s throat. It wasn’t Jamal’s words. It was the way he looked at her when he said “choice.” Every interaction with another human was a choice, really, but the way the word rolled off of his tongue seemed intimate. She’d never really known the feeling of being chosen—it had been denied to her each time a foster parent sat her down with a guilty expression on his or her face. But Jamal said it like choosing her was something anyone would do.

You’re reading too much into this. It’s not like he chose to be your neighbor. That was a fluke. Don’t get excited—you know what happens when you do.

Suddenly an adolescent voice boomed through the train car. “Showtime! Showtime, ladies and gentlemen!”

Jamal jumped, startled by the obnoxious shouts of a group of teen boys on the other side of the car.

“What’s happening?” Jamal asked, stepping protectively in front of her. Ledi laughed, although she appreciated his chivalry.

“Oh perfect, you’ll get the full New York City experience,” she said, tugging his arm so he was flush against the doors with her. “Stand back, and watch out for flying limbs.”

One of the teens tapped on his cell phone and held up a small wireless speaker above his head. A second later, the train was filled with the thumping bass of the latest top 40 hip-hop song. Ledi hadn’t been listening to much music lately, but she’d heard strains of it from the windows of passing cars in her neighborhood and at the bodega as she waited for coffee, and bopped her head along to the familiar beat. One of the teens took off his fitted hat and began a popping and locking routine, tossing the cap up and around, spinning and catching it.

“Hat dancing?” he asked, leaning close to her ear. “Is this what the youth are doing these days?”

“Just keep watching,” she explained, curving a smile in his direction. She had grown up seeing these train performances—different boys, different dances, but always the same amazing athleticism. She’d long ago grown tired of them, but getting to be with Jamal as he watched for the first time made it all new for her. She kept her gaze locked on him, waiting for it . . .

“Go! Go! Go!” the boys shouted as they began clapping. Jamal looked on skeptically, brows furrowed one moment, and then shooting up toward his hairline the next. She heard the telltale thump and looked back at the teen who had just flipped forward and landed on his feet in time to watch him Milly Rock for a few seconds, then segue seamlessly into a tight front somersault, followed by two backflips down the center of the moving train car. The dab he hit after that combination was well earned.