WHEN I WAKE up the next day, my head is filled with Mongolian chants and exploding fireballs and a million other things I don’t really understand. And there’s a stabbing pain right between my eyes.
“It’s called a champagne hangover, honey,” Margo says. “Get some air.”
Sounds like a good idea. I grab my scooter and head outside. I promised to wear a mask. But I break that promise right away. I walk to the closest street and start rolling uptown. As I head up the Bowery, I’m passing video screens with Gismonde’s face, spouting his usual platitudes. I can’t listen to his babble anymore. Especially after what I heard last night.
I see a small crowd gathered in front of a construction wall. They’re looking at a poster tacked to the plywood. Two government workers are putting up the same poster on every available space. I roll up to take a look. One of the workers glances at me.
“Have a beautiful day!” he says.
“And you as well,” I answer. “Dickhead,” I add under my breath. More people start crowding in behind me to read the poster. It must be something good. I scoot up close to get a look.
“The Most Beautiful Day Feast” says the poster headline in fancy, friendly lettering. Underneath, in smaller letters—“Free Food! Gather & Enjoy! Monday.” That’s just three days away.
The crowd is all excited, practically jumping up and down. Could this be real? Actual generosity from the government? It sounds too good to be true. I feel a chill shoot through me. It was too good to be. It was a lie. I know it.
I hear air brakes hissing behind me. It’s a bus, rolling to a stop across the street. Suddenly, the crowd scatters. The people without masks look down or turn their heads away. No wonder. It’s a prison bus. I can see suspects pressed up against the bars on the windows.
I turn my face back toward the poster, pretending that I’m reading. When I hear the air brakes release, I shove off on my scooter to follow. I know Lamont and Margo wouldn’t approve, but I can’t help myself.
Wherever this bus is headed, I’m headed too.