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March 20, 2013
Our tickets. Two thin, stiff rectangles. I finally had them.

“Come on, Mouse,” I said, and dived into the Grand Concourse’s bustle of stupid, groping businessmen, foreigners who hadn’t bathed in God knows how long, and fat middle-American tourists with their broods, gawkers all.

God, a kid picking his nose.

Was Mouse behind me? He was. He was keeping up. I’d told him not to pack so much, but to his credit he wheeled Dad’s black upright without complaint, even with the graphic novels in his Ninja Turtles backpack weighing him down.

There. The Hudson Line. We’d have three minutes.

“Mouse?”