Chapter 12

THURSDAY, MAY 14

1:40 P.M.

THE HIGH LINE, NEW YORK CITY

I’d never been to a park like the High Line before. It was elevated about thirty feet above the city streets, built on the remains of an abandoned rail track. As we walked along the long, narrow park, I could catch glimpses of the old train rails running through the grasses and flowers that’d been planted to make it look nice.

We were snacking on some big salted pretzels that I had bought from a street vendor. They tasted good, but they had pretty much bankrupted me.

“Dry,” said Fluffball. “If you give me another piece of that dry pretzel, I’m gonna choke and die.”

It made me nervous to have the bunny speaking out in the open, but the people of New York didn’t seem to pay attention to anything going on around them.

“Sorry,” Avery said. “I guess we should have bought a salad for you.”

“Now, that would’ve been much more thoughtful,” grumbled Fluffball. “With a light vinaigrette dressing on the side.”

“Were you always this picky?” I asked. “Or did that just happen when you got a voice?”

“Were you always this stinky?” he replied. “Or did that just happen when you rolled around in the garbage?”

“I’m curious, too,” Avery said, backing me up. “What was life like in that cage in the pet store?”

“I’ll just say, I don’t exactly remember,” answered Fluffball. “Life in the cage was . . . like an old dream. I know it happened, but I can’t remember what it was about.”

“So the collar was an upgrade?” I asked.

“Now, I wouldn’t go that far,” he said, “since it means I have to hang around with you.”

I was quickly learning to shrug off his insults. He was an ornery little bunny. He obviously liked Avery more than me, although I couldn’t figure out why.

“There.” Avery pointed ahead. A portion of the park walkway was covered, and I could see a gathering of artists with small tables set out to sell their work.

I drew in a deep breath. “Let us know if you see any boons, Fluffball,” I said as we drew closer.

“That’s what I’m here for,” he groaned.

“And maybe don’t talk for a while,” I added. “We don’t want people to grow suspicious.”

“Okay, smarty-pants,” said the bunny. “How am I supposed to tell you if there’s a boon if I’m not allowed to speak?”

Hmmm. Good point. “Maybe flick your ears or something,” I suggested. “Yeah. Point at the boon with your ears, and thump your back foot to make sure we notice.”

“Why don’t I jump up and do a little tap-dance routine while I’m at it?” said Fluffball.

“Or we could always take off the collar . . . ,” I threatened.

“You wouldn’t dare,” the rabbit said. “Take off this collar, and the boon loses its power. And I don’t think you’ll make it very far without a detector.”

“Might be worth the risk,” I said.

“All right, all right. Fine.” The rabbit sighed. “I’ll do the ear thing.”

As we drew closer, I could start to see how talented these street artists were. There was a guy wearing a dust mask, wielding two cans of spray paint. Somehow, the colors were turning out to look like an amazing view of outer space.

Another artist had pencil drawings of different buildings in New York City. Another had scenic nature landscapes in watercolor. One artist had a psychedelic array of artwork made from geometric shapes in bright colors.

And then there were the birds.

The table was covered in paintings and drawings, prints and sketches. All of them depicting a wide variety of birds. There was no question that we were in the right place.

“Do you see something you like?” asked the artist, looking up from her phone. She was seated cross-legged on the ground behind her table, but she popped up to her feet with ease. Her matted dark hair looked unwashed, a wide cloth headband tying it back. A twinkle on the side of her nose revealed a small gemstone stud, and her pierced earlobes had been stretched to hold large wooden plugs. The woman’s sleeves were rolled partway up, and her jean overalls were smudged with paint.

“Your work is nice,” Avery said. “Is it all birds?”

“Mostly,” she answered. “I’ve always wanted to fly. Painting them might be the closest I get.”

I was going crazy with this small talk. If this painter lady had proof that I was innocent, I needed to see it. But how was I supposed to bring up the topic?

“I’m Mason,” I said, offering my hand to shake. “Mason Morrison.”

“The name sounds familiar,” replied the painter as we shook.

“We’re in a bit of trouble,” Avery dared. “We were told you might be able to help us out.”

“Ah, I think I know what you’re after,” said the painter. She turned around to shuffle through some of her prints. She had only flipped through two or three of the matte-framed pictures when she lifted her phone, fingers flying across the screen as she typed something. Then she picked a print and turned back to face us.

“The hummingbird is one of my favorites to paint,” she said, holding out the artwork.

Hummingbird? This wasn’t helpful at all! How was a tiny hummingbird supposed to prove my innocence?

Her phone chimed, and a text message notification lit up the screen in her other hand. I wasn’t trying to be nosy or anything, but a certain word instantly caught my eye as she lifted her hand and swiped the notification away.

The word was Mason.

A secret text about me? Something didn’t feel right. I reached out, taking the hummingbird painting with such enthusiasm that the edge of the frame clipped the woman’s phone and knocked it out of her other hand.

“Sorry!” I cried as it clattered across the table and fell to the ground. I quickly stooped to retrieve it, my eyes reading the text message conversation that she had just opened.

From the painter: They are here.

One minute later, another text from the painter: Where are you? Can’t stall them much longer.

The reply was what had caught my eye, sent from a contact named Wreckage. It said: Almost there. Don’t let Mason get away!

My heart was pounding as I stood up, holding the phone facedown as if I hadn’t seen the screen. Who was Wreckage? And how did he know my name when the painter hadn’t mentioned it in her text? I swallowed against a lump in my throat as I realized what this meant.

This was a setup. Don’t let Mason get away! The painter wasn’t here to help us!

“I just remembered we don’t have any money,” I said, setting the hummingbird painting on the edge of the table. “And we’re going to be late for a thing we were supposed to do, so . . . We should probably be going.”

“Umm. You guys?” said Fluffball, breaking his vow of silence. “I’m detecting some major boons!”

“You were supposed to tell us if she had—”

“Not her,” interrupted the rabbit. His back foot started thumping against the crook of Avery’s arm, and his ears pointed frantically. “Behind you!”