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  They sat in the lobby, lounging in deep leather chairs, comparing the newest scars on their knuckles. They sipped icy Cokes and re-lived the high points of the dig just ended.

  “I’m looking forward to being home,” Emerson Sr. confided.

  “Me, too.” Will ran his fingertips along the supple arm of the chair and sipped his cold drink.

  Two o’clock. Safa Emerson did not return.

  The sherut came and went. The authorities came and stayed.

  They listened to Will recount every minute of his day. He told them about the packing, about the souk, the tahini, and about the shopkeeper his mother had mentioned. They showed him the gold scarf, dirty and torn, stuffed into a too small plastic zipper bag.

  “Are you sure your mother didn’t tell you the name of the shop? What about the street? ” the authorities prodded.

  “I’m sure. I wanted to go with her. She wouldn’t let me," Will insisted over and over. "I wanted to go.”

  The hotel staff took the duffel bags back to the room his mother had cleared that morning. Clean towels had been stacked on the corner of the freshly made bed and a rollaway wheeled in, still folded up near the door. Will and his father stayed two weeks longer. Will repeated his story to the authorities, to his grandparents in Florida by phone in the middle of the night, but most of all to his father, until their flight landed at O’Hare and not another word was said.

  The shrill whistle of an overdue train urged would-be passengers away from the tracks as it sped past the station, making it clear the wait would not be short. Will pushed through the stiff turnstile at the el station and climbed the stairs to the overcrowded platform above, thick with grumbling passengers pulling out phones and checking the time. Will weaved through the disgruntled to the end of the platform to where, he estimated, the leading car's doors would open. He settled among the waiting.

  Slowly, Will lifted one foot then the other, gauging the stickiness, filling a few minutes idly guessing the substance that might have spilled, trying not to think too far beyond mocha or cola.

  Will searched the annoyed faces around him. Three black overcoats and a Northwestern sweatshirt away, he found her. A middle-aged woman stood at the edge of the platform. She didn't check her email or fuss with her designer coat. Her arms were tightly crossed, fingernails digging into her sleeves. She stared at the brick building at the far side of the tracks. Tears dribbled over her face, washing thin stripes of perfect makeup down her cheeks. A stray drop fell onto the dry wood of the platform where it disappeared into the grime. The overcoats and sweatshirt paid no attention.

  Will warmed his hands in his coat pockets. A couple yards down, a fat man pressed his lips together so hard they vanished, his mouth a numb line. Two more overcoats down, a college kid, brows furrowed, counted nervously on his fingers.

  Will studied these faces, witness to the glazed stares and the little shudders, witness to the sorrow and the guilt and the anger.

  The train arrived with a whoosh. A man's recorded voice confidently announced, "This is Bryn Mawr. Next stop, Berwyn." The doors slid apart and the restless passengers piled in, standing room only.

  The train clattered along on uneven tracks.

  "Next stop, Belmont. Doors open on the right."

  The train stopped alongside the west platform. The doors opened. Will elbowed his way out. The train left the station. He found a place clear of people and turned his backpack side up. He unzipped a small pocket, pulled out his Eastview ID, and jammed it deep into his coat pocket. He headed toward the exit.

  A girl, about his age, waited for a northbound train on the opposite platform, only slightly less crowded than the one Will left earlier. A dainty silver watch dangled undisturbed at her wrist. Her hair was tucked into a white cable-knit hat except for one long dark curl that fell in a delicate ribbon against her porcelain neck.

  Will looked at her longer than anyone should ever look at any other person on an el platform. Her deep blue eyes caught Will. The corner of her mouth lifted. Will snapped his eyes to the orange and pink of the Dunkin' Donuts sign half a block down. A train whistled in the distance.

  Will glanced across the tracks again. She still held him safely in her gaze. He did not look away.

  The northbound train rattled into the station on a center track. Will strained to see the girl through the gaps between the cars.

  "This is Belmont,” the same voice announced from the other train. “Next stop, Addison."

  The blue-eyed girl forced her way through the overcrowded el car. She smiled at Will through a window, her breath forming a soft cloud on the glass.

  The train lurched and started to rattle away. Its cars, wrapped in ads for Hills Bros. and IKEA, alternated red, white, blue, yellow, ending with the bare stainless steel of the last car. Will jogged down the platform, following the train until the screech of the third rail was swallowed by the noise of the restless street below.

  CHAPTER FOUR: SERENDIPITY SMILES

  A pale Halloween sun clung to the Lake Michigan horizon. It broke through the morning clouds, bright and promising a perfect fall day, crisp and clear. The morning light glistened on a new glass and steel mid-rise, an icy cube wedged between its more robust North Michigan Avenue neighbors. A limp crimson ribbon hung from one of the chrome door pulls at the main entrance. Above, a media façade stretched up three full stories of mostly black. At the top edge, the slender fingertips of a young woman peeled down one of the corners, revealing only her jade-green eyes. Three words in ember-white scrawl cut across the bottom. Welcome home, Serendipity.

  In front of the building, a stage, set with a drum kit, an ebony Steinway, and a crumbling stone arch swathed in billowy black silk, consumed three-quarters of the wide sidewalk. Red-eyed devils and tattered undead held vigil on the remaining sliver of concrete.

  A young boy wearing shredded jeans and a prosthetic gash across his cheek planted himself near the center of the throng, his nose buried in the awards edition of the gamer magazine, Veil. The jade-green eyes peered from the cover. A Sharpie hooked to the top edge hung down between them.

  The boy’s father, knobby demon horns mounted to either side of his forehead, shifted his weight from one tender foot to the other. Gratefully, he nursed a non-fat latte, courtesy of the nearby coffee house and the last five bucks in his pocket. He amused himself by eavesdropping the snippets of conversation that managed to rise above the hum of the crowd.

  “Hey, Dad,” interrupted the boy, not bothering to look up to see whether anyone was listening, “this article says M.L. Quig totally wins “Developer of the Year” and Serendipity Returns wins “Game of the Year.” It’s not even out ‘til next week! I can’t wait to play! M.L. is supposed to be here!”

  A line four wide snaked along the building, undulating against a thin yellow cord, until it disappeared around the corner at the far end of the block. The remains of an impromptu campsite poked, haphazard and jagged, out of a dumpster roughly marked in spray painted block letters: Mayor’s Office of Special Events – Please do your part to keep Chicago clean.

  Hundreds of jack-o-lanterns, lit the night before, lined the curb facing the street, now slumping and mostly toothless, grinning mercilessly at everyone outside the rope.

  Across the broad street, the crowd of unfortunates without the numbered wristbands, snapped up a week earlier within an hour, packed themselves onto the sidewalk, resigned to experience the pandemonium from a distance. Police officers on horseback stationed themselves at short intervals along the roadway, shepherding too-eager onlookers off the street and back into the fray.

  An un-costumed young man, face mostly obscured by a faded black hoodie, stood perfectly still amid the chaos, hands in the front pockets of his threadbare jeans. He surveyed nearby onlookers and smiled, satisfied. He slipped to the back of the crowd, leaned against a storefront window, and breathed deep, absorbing the tumult and the crush of strangers crammed together in uncommon unity.

  A pudgy, pimple-faced
boy lurched back, crashing hard into the young man.

  “Sorry, man,” the boy apologized, eyes still glued to the scene across the street. “This is so cool, isn’t it?” His question garnered no response. He turned around expecting to meet a silent glare, but found only his own bewildered reflection.

  A police cruiser sped, lights flashing, to the end of the next block where it swerved, stopping across the lanes of traffic, shutting down one of the city’s busiest thoroughfares, previously closed only for state funerals and Oprah.

  Near the building, burly men wearing day-glo green windbreakers unhooked the rope line and released the privileged into the street.

  A visceral rumble reverberated off the buildings.

  The jade eyes blinked.

  A mounted officer on the opposite side pulled his radio to his ear, nodded and, with a motion to his crew, released the unbraceleted gushing onto the pavement.

  Another rumble surged through the crowd, hushing them in its sonic wake. A distant violin cried, sustaining a single plaintive note, then seamlessly transformed into a woman’s voice, lush and poisonous.

  I . . .

  travel alone

  hear my song

  no companion

  to light my way

  outside the walls I wait

  timeless . . .

  striking . . .

  I . . . .

  satisfy my soul

  illuminating truth

  in eternal retribution . . .

  The media façade flashed bright white. The jade-eyed girl tore away the virtual film, exposing a knowing, half-cocked smile on a waifish face surrounded by wisps of jet black hair. A thick bronze spiral decorated with chicken-scratch symbols hovered at the hollow of her neck. The amulet radiated blades of hot white, overlapping until its eye burning halo filled the screen. The symbols floated off, morphing into the serpentine logo, Serendipity Smiles. The crowd roared.

  The silk fell away from the arch. The singer stepped through and took a deep breath, the tops of her breasts spilling over the top of her corseted gown of ruby taffeta. She repeated the refrain. Her chestnut hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders.

  She marched slowly to the piano and slid onto the bench. Her slender fingers moved over the instrument gracefully. The melody rose and fell as she attacked then caressed the keys in confidence and woe, fury and hope. Her song circled back, ending where it began, on a single mournful note, leaving the crowd still and uneasy.

  She pounded out a few notes. Three men dressed in black jeans and scuffed leather jackets raced onto the stage and pumped out the first grinding chords of a goth-pop anthem. The crowd bobbed like a manic whack-a-mole. Half-an-hour later, the music dissolved as the singer’s band mates left her at center stage to finish the last defiant refrain, quieting the crowd once again. She held the moment.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Mr. M.L. Quig.” she announced coyly. The crowd exploded in applause, taking up a low-toned chant, "M. L., M. L., M. L."

  A wiry man with head of thick, strawberry blond hair filled the media façade. The camera followed him closely as he bounced up the steps. Bulgari sunglasses flapped casually at the breast pocket of his dark, custom tailored suit.

  He met the singer at center stage. She pushed the microphone bud away from her Cherries in the Snow lips and whispered in his ear. Quig grinned. She lingered at his cheek, brushing her mouth across his skin as if no one were watching then walked off stage. Quig ogled the elegant line of her back and the luscious swish of her skirt as she descended the stairs and disappeared into the executive entrance of his new building.

  He adjusted the tiny microphone at his chin and turned his attention to his crowd.

  “Wow, this is amazing. You’re amazing!” Quig waved, working both ends of the stage. The din rose. He applauded his fans who responded with more volume.

  “I know some of you have been waiting a very long time for this. Well, so have I!” He raised his arms, clapping his hands above his head, whipping the crowd's enthusiasm to near frenzy, sustaining the ovation for several minutes before continuing.

  “About fifteen years ago now, in a cramped apartment on the north side of this very city . . .” The crowd howled in raucous approval. “ . . . Serendipity was released from the Underworld, unwittingly born into our world with consequences none of us, not even those of us on the working side of the screen, could have imagined. In what seemed like an instant, she captured the imagination of gamers, like all of you, the world over.”

  Quig continued with a thoughtful tone, “I hope you have enjoyed her journey as much as I have. Today, we mark a new era as we celebrate the return of my company, Serendipity Smiles, with our new headquarters and research and development center right here in my hometown, sweet home, Chicago.”

  Quig stepped back, allowing the wave of admiration to swell.

  “My friends . . ,” he attempted to break in.

  “My friends,” he repeated, “as you know, we held an online competition to select a gamer worthy of welcoming Serendipity home and of being the first to join her on a new adventure, a gamer worthy of unveiling Serendipity Returns. Allow me to introduce ConstanZa.” Quig hopped off the side of the stage.

  A petite girl with dishwater hair tied up in a loose ponytail at the back of her head stood timidly near the gleaming doors. She wore skinny jeans and a pink t-shirt beneath a brighter pink jacket. The camera on his heels, Quig walked over and shook the girl's hand. She giggled, her loose hand rising to conceal rosy cheeks and a mouth full of braces.

  Quig handed ConstanZa a pair of cartoonish scissors and shuttled her toward the ribbon on the door. A handler positioned her so as not to block the company name etched into the glass. She opened the scissors wide then closed the blades with a sharp click. The ribbon dropped to the concrete below. Quig collected the pieces, handing half to the girl. He led her up the steps and paraded her along the front of the stage, ending at center. Quig counted with his fingers . . . one . . . two . . . on three they tossed the ribbons into the writhing crowd below.

  A knot of tweens near the front of the stage screamed and waved homemade banners proclaiming ConstanZa rocks! The girl shifted her weight to one foot, tapping the toe of her other plaid sneaker on the stage. Quig stepped back. ConstanZa daintily adjusted the mic at her chin, closed her eyes, and whispered each syllable with purpose: “Ser-en-dip-i-ty, Ser-en-dip-i-ty.” The crowd joined in, the speed and volume increasing until the chant exploded into cacophony.

  The media façade faded to black. A jagged burnt-orange cliff burst onto the three story screen. At the bottom, Serendipity stared up, lean and small against the towering rock. A spark glinted off a thin shackle encircling her bare ankle. She looked over her shoulder, tied her long hair in a knot, blinked her jade eyes, and waited for ConstanZa’s direction.

  Quig slipped away, abdicating center stage.

  ConstanZa kicked off her sneakers, a shining ring at her ankle. She pulled a pair of palm-sized sticks from her jacket pocket. She studied the knobs and buttons, then raised her head, eyes focused intensely just above the crowd at her feet. She stretched herself tall, thrust her shoulders back, blinked once, and turned to lead Serendipity up the cliff.

  Quig passed through the front doors of his building into an airy lobby which still smelled like wood sealer and wet paint. Tuxedoed servers circulated among the VIPs with silver trays of blood orange martinis and miniature toasts topped with slices of applewood bacon and quail eggs, sunny side up.

  Quig made his way to the center of the room, shaking hands with half-a-dozen men in suits then jogged up a flight of glass stairs to the second floor vestibule. He stood in front of the doors admiring the serpentine logo he had designed fifteen years earlier. He waved his company ID at the small box at the jamb, waited for the click, then went inside.

  Just beyond the doors, a woman in a severe skirted suit waited in the corner office. She leaned on the edge of a desk still piled high with cardboard boxes. Eli
zabeth Denton, read her ID, Senior Vice President, Operations, Serendipity Smiles, Chicago.

  “At last,” she said, exasperated.

  “Beth! Good to see you, too!”

  “Where’s the Kleenex?” She dug through a box. “Hold on, here we are.” She plucked a tissue out of its box and scrubbed the lipstick off Quig’s cheek. She handed him a company check and a pen.

  “What’s this?”

  “Band. They’re getting ready to leave.”

  "Mmm, too bad." He signed and handed everything back to Ms. Denton. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to these events."

  “Oh, don't give me that."

  Quig pulled his smartphone from his jacket pocket and tapped at the screen. “Look at the time.”

  “She’ll be fine."

  “I know, I know. I just . . .”

  “Come with me.” Ms. Denton took his upper arm and led him to the front window. “Look at that. Kids and parents and everyone in between standing shoulder to shoulder, all mesmerized by one little girl playing your game. Do you think she would want you to miss that?”

  “No, of course not.” Quig scanned the street below one last time. He turned to Ms. Denton and smiled. “So, what do you think of my new office?”

  CHAPTER FIVE: NOBODY

  Eastview College Preparatory Academy commanded half a city block on the north side of Chicago, all red brick and uniform windows, more factory than school. Only a narrow band of well-kept lawn dotted with mature parkway maples, now losing their leaves to the autumn chill, softened the harsh façade. A six-story clock tower marked the main entrance. A lithe strawberry-blonde girl loitered in its shadow. She pulled her backpack to her hip and unzipped a pocket. She slid out a small mirror. Holding it above and to the side, she smoothed a loose strand of hair into the tidy knot at the back of her head.

  She tucked the mirror away, leaned the backpack to the opposite side, and dug out a crumpled hot pink sticky note. She pressed the note against her thigh, ironing it flat with her fingers. Have a great first day! Sorry I couldn’t see you off. Happy Birthday, my Sweet Sixteen! See you at dinner. Love you, Pumpkin - Dad.