ONE

I like coffee because it gives me the illusion that I might be awake.

—LEWIS BLACK

Two months later

I awoke in darkness, curled in a shivering ball. I’d been a restless sleeper since my divorce, and I assumed I’d kicked off the blankets. So why was something still covering my face? Heavy and stiff, it was definitely not my well-worn J.C. Penney comfort quilt.

A blaring horn and a string of angry expletives sat me up fast. A coat fell away from my face, and I blinked against a misty-morning sun peeking through naked branches.

Feeling dizzy, I rubbed my eyes before deciding—

This is no dream. This is real.

I tried to rise but my joints were stiff. My right arm was so numb that I had to shake it out. More troubling was the fact that somehow—and I could not for the life of me remember how—I wasn’t in my nice warm bed in my cozy little bedroom in New Jersey. I was sprawled across a hard, cold bench in a public park, close enough to the street for me to hear a cabby cursing out the driver in front of him, which sounded an awful lot like Manhattan.

My suspicion was confirmed when I spied the towering arch of white marble that marked the start of Fifth Avenue.

I’m in Washington Square Park.

The triumphal arch gave me a triumphant rush of relief. I knew where I was—Greenwich Village, but . . .

“How in heaven’s name did I get here?”

My baffled whisper emerged as a cloud of vapor.

Still shivering, I donned the coat that covered me. It fit perfectly, though it wasn’t mine. I went through its pockets for a clue to its owner but found no ID or personal items, beyond a single right-hand glove. Its mate was missing.

The tan leather had a red-brown stain on the palm, about the size of a shot glass rim. Blood. I knew because I’d seen enough of it dried on clothing from scuffed knees and elbows after Joy’s soccer matches.

I was tempted to start spit-scrubbing the stain but instead tucked the glove back in the pocket.

Rising to my feet, I felt wobbly and blamed the unsteadiness on my footwear. There was a theme here, because the high-end, high-heeled boots weren’t mine, either—ditto for the cashmere sweater set and tailored slacks. If I hadn’t been in public, I would have checked to see if I recognized my underwear!

Did I go on some wild shopping spree with my Jersey friends? If I did, where are they now? And why is it I don’t remember? Cupping my hands, I blew warm breath into them and took a sniff. I detected no scent of alcohol. Okay, so I didn’t get tipsy and have a blackout.

I sat back down on the cold bench to orient myself. While I retied my deconstructing ponytail, I realized my purse was nowhere in sight. I dug through every pocket, pants first and coat again. No wallet. No house keys. No car keys. All were gone.

I felt panic rising.

Okay, Clare, pull it together. You’ll figure out what happened, but right now you’ve got to get home to your little girl.

With no watch on my wrist, I called out to a young man who was cutting through the park.

“Could you tell me the time, please?”

“Sure.” He pulled an odd device from the pocket of his NYU hoodie. “It’s six fifty-five, ma’am.”

“Wow, that’s really something you’ve got there.”

He grinned, proudly displaying the black rectangle. Its glowing screen was crowded with colorful icons.

“I got it yesterday, first day of release,” he said. “Everybody in my lab is jealous . . .” He rattled off a series of its “features,” which sounded more like a shopping list in a foreign language. Then he cackled when all I did was ask if this amazing device would be made available to people like me.

“You’re funny, lady. Give it a year. You can buy one used.”

As he moved on, I took a breath and reassessed.

Okay, it’s the crack of dawn. I have no money, no ID, no keys to anything. Panic began to rise again, until I remembered. This was the Village, my old neighborhood, and there was one place I’d always be welcome—

The Village Blend coffeehouse.

Even better, I could get some decent coffee there. In my experience, there weren’t many problems a good cup of coffee couldn’t help solve.