This was how it happened: on September 6, 2000, he stepped into a cab, the cab took him to the airport, and she never saw him again. It was with those two steps that the hole that swallowed her life swiftly and unstoppably began to open. It was like a movie in her head, a projector whirring: the back of his head, three quarters of it from just behind the right ear, the profile of his Roman nose, the quarter-moon of his earlobe within the kaleidoscope of leaves, the glint of silver at his wrist as he lifted his phone to talk. Central Park was behind them. She glimpsed her face in the taxicab reflection, her raven-black hair, the heart shape of her face in the slippery dark glass.
It was the blood on the kid's knuckles that made him do it, that caused Fisher's fingers to tighten around the wad of biils, to leave the molded bench by the bulkhead window. The ferry tilted in the chop. Fisher had to steady himself between his table and the booth in which the two boys sat, but he never took his eyes off those bloody knuckles. They'd done it outside, on the deck. He didn't see it, but he knew what they did, punching each other's fists until the skinnier teen's skin split. It was whoever bled first; that was the game.