can work with that!” Myla says, and August is smiling apologetically back at Jane and whisking Myla away, and Jane is lost in the crowd of commuters.
“I’m gonna kill you,” August says as they pick their way toward the stairs.
“The most interesting thing that’s ever happened to me!” Myla yells over her shoulder.
“What did you think of her?”
Myla hops up on the landing, tugging her miniskirt down. “I mean, honestly? That’s wife material. Like, three kids and a dog material. If she looked at me the way she looks at you, my IUD would have shot out like a party popper.”
“Jesus Christ,” August says. And, involuntarily, “How do you think she looks at me?”
“Like you’re her Pop-Tart angel. Like you shit sunshine. Like you invented love as a concept.”
August stares at her, trying to take that in, then turns on her heel and heads off toward the exit. “No, she doesn’t.”
“Like she wants to eat you alive,” Myla adds, jogging to catch up.
“You don’t have to lie to make me feel better,” August says.
“I’m not lying! She—oh, fuck.”
Myla has screeched to a halt—literally, the rubber of her boots squeaking on the damp tile floor—in front of a sign posted on the station wall. August backtracks to read it.
SERVICE ALERT, the sign declares.
Below, there’s the yellow bubble of the Q. Commuters keep walking right past it, just another inconvenience in their day, but August freezes and stares and feels all her rides on the Q spin out around her in a film reel until a breaker flips and they all go black.
“They’re shutting the line down for maintenance at the end of the summer,” Myla reads.
“Shutting it down?” The dates indicate September 1 through October 31. “Two months? I won’t be able to see her for two months?”
Myla turns to her, eyes wide. “Didn’t you say—if she doesn’t see you—?”
“Yeah,” August says. “When I stopped riding the Q, everything got blurry again for her. Do you … do you think she would…?”
August pictures Jane trapped for months, alone and confused and staticky and forgetting, or worse—tripping back out of this precise moment in time just like she tripped into it, lost again, gone further than August’s research could ever uncover. They have no idea how firmly she’s planted here and now.
August just found her. It’s too soon to lose her.
At Billy’s, Lucie does not look happy to see August, considering she’s been faking mono for weeks. But she shoves two menus and two rolls of silverware at her and wordlessly seats them at the bar.
Winfield drops off a plate of fries, and once he’s gone, August leans over and asks, “What the hell do we do?”
“Okay,” Myla says. “I have a theory.”
August opens her mouth before snapping it shut when Winfield drops off the ketchup. As soon as he’s gone, she asks, “What?”
Myla leans in. “Do you know anything about time slips?”
August blinks. “No.”
“Okay,” Myla says. She seizes the ketchup, dumping it over the fries. August pulls a face, and Myla waves it off. “It’s this sci-fi trope where somebody gets lost in time. So, like, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. Mark Twain book. Guy gets hit in the head and wakes up in Camelot. Maybe something happened to her on the train that threw her out of time.”
August frowns. “Like, she time traveled?”
“Sort of,” Myla says thoughtfully. “But you found proof she was around in the ’80s and ’90s, right?” August nods. “So it’s not only then to now. Maybe she’s been, like … flickering through time. Maybe she’s stuck on the subway because some big event, some big anomaly, tethered her there. She’s, like, trapped in the in-between.”
“In between what?”
“Dead and alive, maybe,” she says. “Real and not real.”
“So the train is like … purgatory?” How very Catholic.
“Yeah, but … not. Like, okay. You and me, we’re real. We’re stuck to reality, in this timeline. Linear. We started at point A, and we move forward through points B, C, D, et cetera. This is because nothing has ever interfered with our reality. There’s never been an event that could have disrupted our timeline. So our points A, B, C, D, correspond to the same order of points in linear time. But say there was an event like—like on Lost, when they detonate the H bomb and get thrown forward in time. Something just big enough to make a crack that one person could slip through, and it knocked her loose from the timeline of reality. Her point