Page 162 of 72 Hours of You

“So,” I start, “about today—”

“I got you something,” Peter says. “Well, I didn’t get it. But … hold on.”

I hope it’s not two Metro passes. He opens his car, tosses his depressing novel on the passenger seat, which is covered with enough books to pass as one of those traveling mini libraries, and pops open the glove compartment. He turns around and hands me a crumpled piece of paper. “Here. To commemorate the … doing of something.”

“Um … thank you?” Against my will, my heart rate starts to pick up just thinking about whatever he’s written. Probably something that’s going to make me feel super shitty for bailing. I go to unfold the paper but he stops me.

“Hey, wait, what are you doing?”

“Did you not want me to read it in front of you or something?”

“It’s not a note.” Peter frowns. “Can’t you tell what it is?”

I look at it again. It just looks like a crumpled piece of … oh. Oh god. Now I see it. The folded corners. The creased and uncreased zigzagging lines, the smoothed-out edges that look like they were formed with a medium-to-high amount of frustration.

I look back up at Peter. “You made me a bird?”

“Well, I tried. I’m not sure I actually succeeded.” His face is creased like the paper, a self-conscious crinkle forming in his forehead.

“No, no,” I say quickly. “I can see it now. It’s actually really good for a first try.”

“That was my eighth attempt.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Okay, well. Still.” I hold the little white body up to get a better look at him. His head is kind of lolling to the side and his neck is virtually nonexistent, but still. “He’s very cute. Unique.”

Peter laughs. “I’d say don’t patronize me, but actually go ahead.”

“Really,” I say, “thank you. I love him.” And goddamn it, I actually do. I hold the paper gently in my hands, afraid to crush it. Not that you’d be able to tell if I did—it’s already pretty tragic. And adorable. Adorable? God help me. I clear my throat and attempt to keep my shit together, but it’s kind of hard.

The first bell rings and everyone starts making their way into the building. I had almost forgotten that I was standing in the parking lot.

A cluster of freshman girls burst into giggles as they walk past us, clinging to each other’s backpacks.

“You sure you’re still up for today?” Peter asks, studying my face.

Am I? I don’t know. This is about to be maybe the biggest mistake of my life. The Actually … is caught in my throat, waiting for me to release it. But instead I look up at him and hear myself saying, “Yeah. Let’s go.” Because really, what else can I say?

Peter Beckett made me a bird.

Twenty-Seven

PETER AND I WALK DOWN A CITY BLOCK, our hands by our sides—the almost-ness of our fingers touching burning in my brain. It’s not like I want to touch him or anything. But I’m just, like, hyperaware that I am, in fact, not touching him. God, I don’t even know what the fuck I’m talking about. It’s the origami bird. It made everything so … so. It’s like Peter went from high-def to 4K or something.

But if he notices, he doesn’t let on. Peter’s being very casual today. Like he’s trying extra hard to not draw attention to the absolute absurdity of what we’re here to do. Which is hand almost-dead people hot dogs. Metaphorically. Or literally. I’m still not sure.

I have no idea where we are, but Peter keeps commenting on the stoops and pointing out different slivers of skyscrapers that loom over the brownstones.

“See that one with the really cool architecture?” Peter points to this building that looks exactly like the last six buildings. “That’s actually part of NYU. It’s just an office of theirs. But still. Isn’t that wild? Imagine New York City as your college campus.”

“Oh.” I stop and actually pay attention. There are little purple flags with torches hanging off the awning. A girl with a leather jacket, a high pony, and AirPods walks up the steps to the building. She pulls the handle of the giant door and goes inside without looking back. And why would she? She belongs here.

For a second, I let myself imagine what it would be like to grab the cold brass door handle in my own hands, pull open the door and walk inside … No. No, I can’t go down that road. It’s one thing to come out here with Peter and do this thing, it’d be a whole other to live here. I can’t even let myself think about it.

“Hey, are you okay?” Peter lowers his voice. “Do you … see something, or, you know, someone?”

I shake my head, tearing my eyes away from the little purple flags and putting the impersonation of a smile on my face. “No. Everyone around here gets to live. At least for the next three days.”

“Copy that.” Peter lets out a little breath. “You know, I’m not sure if I’m supposed to get excited when we actually find a, uh, Clocker, or if I should feel bad or … I don’t know.”