More than anything, Henry wanted to hold Louis. Two years was a very long time. He couldn’t stand another minute of separation. He reached for Louis’s hand, and this time, nothing stood between them. Louis’s fingers, which Henry hadn’t felt in far too long, were still wet and cold from the river. Fighting the ache in the back of his throat, Henry ran a finger across Louis’s cheeks and nose, resting it against his full lips.
“Kiss me, cher,” Louis whispered.
Henry leaned forward and kissed him. Louis’s lips were warm and soft. Henry had been telling himself, This is not real. It’s only a dream. But now he stopped telling himself that. It felt real enough. And if dreams could be like this, well, he wasn’t sure he wanted to wake up. Henry kissed Louis again, harder this time, and the sky lit up with a strange sort of lightning. The tops of the trees unraveled slightly; the sun flickered like a lamp with a short.
“What was that?” Henry said, breaking away.
“Don’t know. You’re the dream man,” Louis said. But then Louis was pulling Henry down into the bottom of the rowboat, where they lay in each other’s arms, lulled into contentment by the sun and the breeze and the gentle lapping of the river.
“I won’t ever leave you again, Louis,” Henry said.
When the dream walk neared its end, Henry could barely stand to wrench himself away from Louis. “I’ll be here every night until you’re in New York,” he promised.
Gaspard barked happily and trotted up to Henry, his tail wagging like a flyswatter, and poked his wet nose into Henry’s hand. Henry rubbed at the dog’s floppy ears, enjoying the familiar softness of them. Gaspard’s slobbery tongue slicked Henry’s cheek.
“Everybody wants to kiss you,” Louis said, laughing, and Henry’s throat tightened again. It was just like Louis to dream of his dog.
Gaspard tore away, sniffing ahead of them on the path. The hound tensed near a climbing wall of flowering morning glories, growling and barking at the purplish buds.
“Gaspard! C’mon, boy! Come away from there,” Louis said sharply.
“What’s the matter?” Henry asked.
“I don’t want him in those flowers. Don’t like ’em.”
Henry thought perhaps Louis was joking, but one look at his face said he wasn’t.
“They’re just flowers,” Henry said.
“Gaspard, c’mon, boy!” Louis whistled, and the dog came running. Louis dropped down and nuzzled his face into the dog’s fur. “Good boy.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Henry asked.
Louis replaced his frown with a smile. “Fine as morning. Kiss me once for luck, cher. And twice for love. And three times means we’ll meet again.”
Henry kissed him till he lost count.
In her bed, Ling groaned with pain and exhaustion. Her eyes fluttered open long enough for her to feel the terrible ache deep in her bones. She slid her hand under her pillow, her fingers just touching the cold edge of George’s track medal as she fell into a deep sleep.
Ling stood in Columbus Park. Clouds roiled overhead in anticipation of some storm.
A heartbeat thrummed in her ears, insistent as a drum.
Every post and tree she saw had the same sign: MISSING. MISSING. MISSING.
George Huang pulsed in the gloom, a ghostly heartbeat. His pale skin was fissured like broken pottery glued back together, and red blisters shone on his neck. When he lifted his threadbare hand, his bones showed through like an X-ray. George spread his arms, and the scene shifted back and forth, as if they were cards being pushed and pulled quickly through a stereoscope. One minute, it was the familiar pathways, trees, and pavilion of the park; the next, the park was gone, and in its place were ominous tenements, shacks with rotting shutters, and filthy streets piled with garbage.
The dream changed. Now Ling found herself in City Hall Park. George floated just above a metal grate beside a drinking fountain. He pointed to a row of buildings behind her. Ling turned back to George, and he fell like rain through the bars of the grate. She crawled onto the grate to look for him and it gave way, plunging her down and down into the darkness.
She was inside the train station. The old sign was there—BEACH PNEUMATIC TRANSIT COMPANY—but rot raced along the walls, the decay taking over, devouring the dream’s beauty. Light trembled against the velvety dark of the tunnel like a handful of firecrackers tossed up on Chinese New Year, and in those brief flashes, Ling saw pale blots of form. Eyes. Ravenous mouths. Sharp teeth. There was an ominous insectlike chorus, growing louder.
