I went to New York City by myself for nine days— my friend Billy said "Nine days?

That's too long. You shouldn't be here for that long. You'll be exhausted." As you may have noticed by his choice of the word "here," I was already on his front porch in Brooklyn, so I couldn't do much about it.

Seven days later, I met a man who had missed the last boat to Ellis Island. I had missed it too, and I was talking to him and his friend about having missed it. "The last boat leaves at five? There's no sign saying so; it's completely confusing. What the hell?" Actually, I was only talking to the friend, because the man couldn't move. He was young and handsome, maybe American and ethnically South Asian, or maybe visiting New York City from another country. He held very still, calm but straining. He looked like he was trying to decide whether he was trying to hold back tears or not— I remember, because you don't see that look on a stranger's face very often. He wore purple. The light was orange.