Ray does not ask any questions when they unlock his cell. The sergeant holds out his shoelaces, his belt, then leads him up the stairs, down a narrow hallway. He opens a door and pushes Ray out into the fresh air, the brightness.
Ray stumbles, hands up to shield his eyes. Bending down, fingers shaking, he threads the laces through, ties them; he slides his cracked belt through the loops of his pants. A shadow slides toward him, and when he looks up Scott is there, in a dark red shirt and crooked glasses.
“You knew it was me, didn’t you? I been making money, or I’d have been her sooner.”
Ray stands, lurching against Scott, steadying himself. “Land legs,” Scott says. “You’ll be all right.”
“You got yourself all pimped up,” Ray says. “Haircut.”
“Let’s walk.”
“That’s right. Let’s get away from here.”
They head down the sidewalk, slowly, their shoulders almost touching. They walk a block and a half before Scott speaks.
“Haven’t slept in four days.”
“Not me,” Ray says. “I’ve been dreaming. Sleeping all the time.” He rakes at his hair, trying to work out the flat sections. The cramps in his legs come and go. “I could rest, though. Sleeping’s not always the same as resting.”
“Right on,” Scott says. “Lead the way.”
They reach the Franklin Parkway. The museum, lit by the sun, is only half a mile away.
“Which boy was it?” Scott says.
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.”
“Black or white?”
“Black,” Ray says. “Can we not talk about this right now?”
“Oh, yeah,” Scott says. “Sorry. Man, we got all sorts of time. I’m a little wired, here, that’s all.”
They walk slowly, in silence, for ten minutes, and almost reach the river. They shuffle along Twenty-third Street, then over to Twenty-fourth. Finally, they turn underneath the shadow of the Walnut Street Bridge.
“Almost there,” Ray says.
They pass a loading dock, then a pile of wet clothes, graffiti on the walls, some empty purses and wallets—all the little things people steal from cars, empty out, and leave behind. Closer to the river, the round concrete pillars rise, supporting the bridge. A ladder is bolted to the concrete, halfway up one pillar. Ray stacks two plastic milk crates, then balances on them, stretching for the ladder’s bottom rung.
His arms tremble with the strain; he kicks and scrabbles with his feet until he’s there, he’s climbing. Ten more feet and he’s at the bottom of the bridge, the underside; a dark, square hole leads into the space, only four feet high, just under the street. He steps off the ladder and crouches in the darkness, inside the thickness of the bridge.
Looking down, he sees Scott, squinting upward, climbing onto the milk crates.
“Kick those away,” Ray hisses down, “so no one knows we’re up here.”
Scott gasps; his legs twist, and then he regains his grip. His face jerks closer and closer, until he’s sitting next to Ray, breathing hard.
“What is this?” he says.
“It’s famous in the winter,” Ray says. “The steam pipes run through it—that keeps everyone warm.”
There’s no ventilation; the empty darkness smells like dirty clothes and sleeping bodies, though chances are there’s no one here. Ray leads Scott deeper, now out above the river, hidden beneath their feet. The sharp claws of rodents scrabble nearby, invisible, on the asbestos-wrapped pipes. Ray leads him past the hammocks made of plastic mesh from construction sites, over piles of crushed aluminum cans. At last, his hands patting the air, he finds an old couch—pulled up here somehow, sometime—and it’s narrow but there’s room enough for the two of them to stretch out, side by side.
“Thanks,” Ray says. “I meant to say that. Whatever you did.”
“That goes without saying.”
“Sleep, now.”
“All right,” Scott says, his voice already trailing away. “I knew you were innocent.”
Ray listens beyond Scott’s breathing, until he is certain they are alone inside the bridge. Some nights in the winter, there’s almost a hundred people, here—most of them messed up, one way or the other, and everyone getting into each other’s business, trying to find out if you have anything they want. He avoids this place, even when the trees and bushes lose their leaves and cover is impossible to find. Now, though, it’s the only place. He listens to the cars and buses, rattling overhead. All his chances are over, in this city. They’ll run him down every time they can. Is he innocent? If anyone could understand his confession, he’d give it to them. Because he’s followed the boys, called to them, planned for them. He wanted the boys to come, expected it, willed it to happen. All but the last part, yet could he be responsible for everything but the ending, the result? He does not know. A boy is dead, and he sees how he set it all in motion.
Hours later, Scott awakens. Ray is sitting nearby in the darkness, still turning over the same thoughts.
“Ray?”
“I’m here.”
“What time is it?”
“Does it matter? Sleep.”
“If anything goes wrong, if we get split up, we’ll meet in the garden,” Scott says. “We have to stick together.”
The bridge shakes with the traffic overhead. Ray coughs, sits back on the couch, leans against Scott’s legs.
“I warned you about those boys, Ray.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Whatever it was,” Scott says. “I could’ve helped you. You’re the only one who ever really listened to me, at all.”
“If I could have reached the garden,” Ray says. “I could have put him on my bicycle, somehow.”
“Whatever it was you wanted, I could do it.”
“I wish,” Ray says. “You’re too old. That’s all.”
“And it won’t take long before I get some more money together. We could get a car. Go anywhere. Just tell me what to do.”
“Sleep,” Ray says, reclining again. “I think I will, too.”