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a subway opened in the pavement like a giant mouth. Graham migrated into the center of the pavement to pass by and stopped dead.
    She was there. The girl, Annalise, standing by the railing at the mouth of the subway, two suitcases by her feet and an A to Z guide in her hand. She was blonde this time but it was definitely her. She was staring straight at him, looking as though she'd seen a ghost.
    He walked towards her, not sure what to do. Instinct told him to look down at his feet and walk past. The girl was trouble, all people were. But she'd helped him, saved his life maybe. And he hadn't even thanked her.
    He wobbled in midstride, unable to make up his mind. She looked older than he remembered, her clothes were less shabby too—no rips or weeks of ground-in dirt. She also looked lost. Lost and shocked. As though seeing Graham was the last thing she'd expected.
    Graham slowed as he approached. Should he walk past? Wait for her to make the first move?
    Her hand shot out as he drew level and closed tight around his forearm.
    "You're real?" she said, answering her own question with a squeal of delight. "You really exist!"
    Graham didn't know what to do. Whatever he'd expected this hadn't been it. Was Annalise playing another role for the benefit of some unknown observer?
    She withdrew her hand. "Sorry, you must think me a total flake but you don't know what this means to me."
    Her voice broke, a tear spilled down her cheek, she smoothed it away with a hand then grabbed his arm again. "We can't talk here," she said, sniffing loudly. "Don't ask me how I know, I just do. Trust me. We've got to get you off this street. Now!"
    He hesitated, not wanting to be deflected from his routine but . . . He did trust her. She'd helped him when he'd needed it most.
    She handed him one of her cases and led him down a side street. She seemed different somehow, her voice was the same but . . . Could she be Annalise's sister?
    He sneaked a look at the address tag flapping from the suitcase handle . Annalise Mercado, 17 Fairchild Street, Boston, Mass.  
    Annalise caught him looking at her luggage and smiled. "I flew in today. Came straight here from the airport. I had to see if this place was real or not." Her expression hardened. "I didn't dream it would be this real."
    They walked on, past lines of meters and parked cars. The street curved gradually to the right, a green awning came into view, a few tables clustered beneath it on the pavement.
    "In here!" Annalise wove her way through pavement tables towards the door of a small cafe. Graham hesitated. He hadn't been inside a cafe for years.
    "Come on," said Annalise, beckoning him from the doorway. "I'm buying."
    He followed, reluctantly. They found a table at the back, slid the suitcases to the side and sat down.
    "My name's Annalise, Annalise Mercado," she said, holding her hand out across the table towards Graham. Her voice started to quiver, "And I'm not crazy." Graham shook her hand; Annalise closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "You cannot believe how good it is to be able to say that."
    A waitress appeared. "Can I take your order?"
    "What? Oh, sure, I'll have coffee. And you?"
    Graham nodded and began lining up his cutlery—knife, fork, spoon—making sure they were all parallel and equidistantly spaced. Annalise turned back to the waitress. "Make that two coffees."
    As soon as the waitress left Annalise reached out and placed her hand on top of Graham's. He flinched but Annalise didn't seem to notice. "Tell me," she took a deep breath, "is your name Graham Smith?"
    He nodded, keeping his eyes well down, looking at Annalise's plate and wondering if she'd mind if he took his hand back and rearranged her cutlery.
    "I knew it!" She clapped her hands in delight. Graham took the opportunity to retrieve his hand.
    "This is so amazing! Like, all my life I've known that there was something I was supposed to do, but no one would ever tell me what it was. And now I know. I'm here to save