His spirits begin to lift. In short order, he is running, sprinting down streets just coming to life with the dawn. He races past garbage trucks and newspaper deliveries and storefronts opening for the day. He outpaces early morning joggers. His arms piston and his legs burn, but he doesn’t care. He’s close. So close.
He rounds a corner, and then he sees it. The brownstone seems no different from the one where Amanda was shot, where Other Jonas lived, where he lived with Amanda in what feels like three lifetimes ago. He bounds up the stairs, his lungs heaving. A finger trembling with anticipation moves down the buttons of the building directory before settling on her name—CULLEN, AMANDA—on a sun-bleached label beneath a cloudy film of plastic. A metal button dusted with fingerprints next to it. Jonas’s finger hovers over it for the briefest of seconds. He imagines what he’ll tell her. How he’ll explain the impossible. How he’ll implore her to listen to his voice, to trust her memory of it. To believe him. He’s here. He’s back, and he’s alive, and he can’t wait to tell her all the details of his incredible story, but first he just needs to hold her in his arms and tell her that he loves her.
He pushes the button.
And waits.
He presses again. He’s shaking as though experiencing withdrawal. His ears are warm. His palms are sweating. He pushes the button a third time.
Behind him the door swings open, and a young boy, no more than ten, bounds out, a Dragon Ball Z backpack slung over his shoulder and a childlike spring in his step.
“She’s not home,” he offers before bounding down the steps.
The boy looks like Mr. and Mrs. Gomez. A nephew or grandson, maybe? Jonas springs after him. “Excuse me. What do you mean she’s not home?”
The boy stops. He glances skyward, looking toward the brownstone. “Mrs. Cullen. You were buzzing her, right?” Jonas nods. “She’s not home. She’s been painting in the mornings lately.”
It’s all Jonas can do to keep himself from hugging the boy. The wave of relief that hits him must unnerve the kid, because he says, “Are you okay?” The question comes out the way so many children’s questions do, without a sense that the answer is important.
“I’m fine. Do you know where she is? Do you know where she is right now?” Jonas can hardly keep the desperation out of his voice.
“I don’t know,” the boy answers.
Jonas’s mind wheels. He’s searched for Amanda in a multiverse of near-infinite realities only to have lost her in a city of over eight million people. Then an idea takes shape. “Do you have a phone I can borrow?” he blurts.
The boy hesitates. His parents have probably taught him not to share his phone with strangers. Nevertheless, he digs into his pocket and produces a five-year-old phone in a Power Rangers case. “I have to get to school.”
“Thank you,” Jonas says. “This’ll just take a second.” He searches for Amanda’s gallery. A few seconds of eternity pass before the phone confirms that Amanda is associated with the same gallery in this reality. He taps to get the phone to dial the number. It’s just past eight o’clock in the morning, before business hours, but Jonas is feeling lucky. Hope, that feckless stranger, is visiting him once more.
“Logan Gallery,” a male voice answers.
“Mitchell—” Jonas blurts, leaping at the voice.
“No, this is Vincent. Can I help you?”
Jonas breathes deep. Now comes the hard part. “This is Officer Stamper with the NYPD,” he says. “I need to locate Amanda Cullen.” He endures a pause on the other end of the line. “She may be going by Amanda Monroe.”
Another pause. “What’s this regarding?” Vincent asks.
“I can’t disclose that,” Jonas vamps. “She’s not in any trouble, but I need to speak with her immediately. In person.” He looks down to see the Gomez boy shifting on his feet, impatiently waiting for the return of his phone. “My understanding is that she’s out painting right now. Would you happen to know where?”
Another pause. Jonas holds his breath. Then, finally, Vincent responds. “At this time of day, she’s usually working. She likes the light.”
Jonas forces calm into his voice. “Do you have an address?”
Vincent does. It’s only six blocks away. Jonas is already plotting a course in his mind as he says, “Thank you.”
“She’s not in trouble, right?”
“No. No trouble at all.”
“She’ll be on the roof.”
“I know.”
“Wait. How would you kn—”
Jonas kills the line and returns the phone to the boy. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t know you were a cop,” the boy says. “Why don’t you have your own phone?”
“That . . . is a very, very long story,” Jonas says. “Thanks again.” With that, he takes off running.
Streets and avenues fall behind him as he runs, surrendering to his passage. For a blissful moment, it seems the universe has run out of tricks. But this time it doesn’t throw storms or earthquakes at him. It throws a parade. Entire city blocks are sectioned off by wooden blue sawhorses and police on horseback. Jonas darts through, ignoring shouted police commands and even weaving through a marching band.
He makes it another half block when he’s tossed into the air by a hand made of fire. Gravity smashes him back onto the sidewalk. He hears screams and astonished reactions. Still lying on the ground, he turns to see shattered concrete and traces of blue flame. Some kind of gas main explosion.
A passel of Good Samaritans is lifting him to a chorus of “Are you all right, buddy” and “Holy shit.” Jonas shrugs them off, muttering, “Thank you. I’m fine.” He hears incoming sirens. Someone tells him he should wait for an ambulance, but he takes off again.
His body protests as he sprints. But the pain is meaningless. He feels hope aborning. The universe may have been plotting his defeat, but it’s a fickle beast. It may have set Eva in his path to distract him, to stop him, to pull him off his pursuit, but Eva also helped him. The universe may be driven by fate but not with a singular mind. Jonas has faith. He has himself. He has the will to get to Amanda, to hold her in his arms again and never let her go.
He shoots across the street and once again finds himself airborne. In seconds, he’s landing atop the windshield of a taxi. As the glass spiderwebs beneath his weight, he thinks of how often he’s been hit by cars lately. The trick, he’s learned, is to go limp, relax the muscles, and let the impact absorb the kinetic energy. He ricochets off the taxi and lands in the street. The pain is intense, as usual, but it’s dampened under a cloud of adrenaline. Jonas throws himself to his feet and keeps running as the taxi driver unleashes a string of expletives such as can only be found in New York City.
Another gas main explodes nearby, but Jonas doesn’t even break stride.
Two more blocks.
I’m almost there, Amanda. I’m almost there.
