Page 112 of White Noise

A billboard changes above me.

Normal.

Someone beside me answers a video call.

Normal.

A wall of televisions inside a store cycles through the same commercial.

All fucking normal.

No white noise cuts through the music around me. No black eyes appear in the glass and no voice crawls out of a speaker and calls me little echo.

For the first time in days, electronics are just fucking electronics.

Thank fucking god.

The relief hits hard enough that I have to stop walking.

I bend forward with my hands on my knees and breathe while people move around me. My lungs burn from practically running the last few blocks, my palm is crusted with dried blood, and there is probably insulation still stuck in my hair.

But I don’t care because he isn’t here.

When I straighten, my eyes sting.

“Oh, fuck.”

I laugh because crying in the middle of Times Square after crawling through the walls of my condo feels exactly stupid enough to fit the rest of my week.

I wipe my face with my sleeve and look around again.

Still nothing.

“Holy shit.”

I did it.

I actually fucking did it.

For one full minute, I let myself believe that.

Then something vibrates beneath my ribs.

I barely notice at first. Times Square is full of bass, engines, footsteps, voices, and enough noise to make the pavement feel alive.

The vibration comes again.

This time, I feel it inside my chest.

My smile disappears.

I press my hand over my sternum.

My heartbeat kicks against my palm.

Another beat follows, and beneath it is something faint enough that I almost convince myself I imagined it.

Static.