He woke up one morning and headed west.
Past Essex Street and Broadway, over the Hudson, into Jersey. He ate something called city chicken in Cleveland. Bought a fur-lined denim jacket in Steamboat Springs that smelled like cedar and got him through the chill of the Rockies.
San Francisco wasn’t the plan, but it seemed as good a place as any to start over.
When he met her, he said his name was Tyler. They walked all night through the empty streets of Chinatown.
He ran his fingers through her hair, the streetlamps turning each strand to gold. They ate dim sum at 3 a.m. He told her he’d been waiting his whole life to find her.
He liked the way she smiled when she believed him.