The reality of that spins out: Jane would have been fine if she wasn’t stuck here and now. The Q has probably lost power or had its power cut a hundred times before, but Jane always missed it, until August. Until August fell in love with her and got greedy with kisses and turned herself into a weight holding Jane in one spot.

And now, if she doesn’t pull this off, Jane might be gone forever. Not now. Not then. Nowhere.

Maybe Jane was right. This is her fault.

 

* * *

 

“August,” Myla yells through August’s bedroom door. “August!”

She buries her face in her pillow and groans. It’s seven in the morning, and she didn’t get home from work until four hours ago. Myla is really betting on not getting stabbed.

The door flies open, and there’s Myla, wild-eyed, a soldering gun in one hand and a string of lights in the other. “August, it’s a nerve.”

August squints through a wall of her hair. “What?”

“My sculpture,” she says. “The one I’ve been working on for, like, ever. I’ve—I’ve been looking at it all wrong. I thought I was supposed to be making something big, but it was right in front of me with all this Jane stuff—the branches, the lights, the moving parts—it’s a nerve. It’s what I do! Electricity of the heart! That’s what the point of view is!”

August rolls over to stare at the ceiling. “Damn. That’s … genius.”

“Right? I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before! I have to thank Jane the next time I see her, she—”

August’s face must fold into something tragic, because Myla stops.

“Oh, shit,” Myla says. “You still aren’t talking to her?”

August shakes her head. “Five days now.”

“I thought you were gonna go back after three?”

August rolls back over and curls around her pillow. “Yeah, that was before I knew trying to save her life might get her killed. Now I feel like maybe she was right to want me to leave her alone.”

Myla sighs, leaning against the doorframe. “Look, remember what we said when you first moved in and I made you listen to Joy Division? We’ll figure it out. We have most of a plan now.”

“I think I know everything, but I don’t,” August mumbles. “Maybe I started with a relationship difficulty level too far above my skill set.”

“Oh, we’re in self-pity mode,” Myla says. “I can’t help you with that. Good luck, though! Talk to Jane!”

Myla leaves August in her unwashed sheets, feeling sorry for herself, tasting strawberry milkshake on the back of her tongue.

Her phone buzzes somewhere in the tangle of her bed.

It’s probably another passive-aggressive text from her mom, or Niko in the group chat checking the household rice inventory from the grocery store. She grumbles and fishes it out from beneath her ass.

Her breath hitches. It’s Jane.

Put the radio on.

She catches the outro of a Beach Boys song, fading into warm quiet, before the early morning DJ’s voice picks up over the waves.

“That was ‘I Know There’s an Answer’ from the album Pet Sounds, and you’re listening to WTKF 90.9, your one-stop shop for the new, the old, the whatever, as long as it’s good,” he says. “This next one’s a request from a frequent caller, one with a taste for the oldies. And this one’s a goodie. It goes out to August—Jane says she’s sorry.”

The intro comes up, drums and strings, and August knows it right away. The first song they chased a memory to, the one they played on her clumsy attempt at a first date.

Oh, girl, I’d be in trouble if you left me now.…

Her phone thumps down onto her chest.

The song buzzes over her little speakers and the music wells up wistful and heartsick, and she pictures that seven-inch single Jane told her about. For the first time, she really sees it: Jane, 1977, on her own and alive.

It’s hard to believe colors looked the same back then, crisp and bright and present, not washed-out, grainy sepia, but there it is. Strings and faraway vocals and Jane. There’s her skin glowing golden under crosswalk lights as she carries a bundle of new records home. There’s the stack of books on her nightstand. There’s the Indian place she used to like, the cigarettes she used to bum when she was stressed, the woman down the hall who makes the terrible pierogies, a tube of toothpaste rolled up at the end with CREST in the big block letters of a discontinued font.

There’s the bright red of her sneakers, fresh out the box, and the sun that used to fall across her bedroom floor, and the mirror where she checked the swoop of her hair, and the blue sky over her head. She’s there. Only leaving what she means to leave. Exactly where she’s supposed to be.

Jane’s been on the train thinking of home, and August has been at home thinking of Jane moving in, cooking breakfast, building a life with her. It feels like a million years ago that she sat over a plate of fries at Billy’s and told Myla that they had to help her no matter what. Even if she lost her. She really did believe it.

Another text. Jane.

Come back.

Maybe that’s the worst thing August can do. Maybe it’s the only thing.

She rolls out of bed and reaches for her keys.

13

 

Radio transcript from WTKF 90.9 FM

Broadcast November 14, 1976

 

STEVEN STRONG, HOST: That was “Unchained Melody” by the Righteous Brothers, and you’re listening to 90.9 The Mix, your home for everything you want to listen to at the push of a button. Hope you’re staying warm out there, New York—it’s a cold one tonight. Up next, I have a request from a Jane in Brooklyn, who wanted to hear from some of our favorite British boys. This is “Love of My Life” by Queen.

Jane’s not on the train.

August tries to pick her way through the people clogging the aisle, but it’s packed tight and she’s too short to see over their heads. She ends up jostled to the end of the car, and she clambers up onto the one empty seat to see if the boost helps.

It doesn’t.

Something lodges in her throat. Jane’s not there. She’s never not been there before.

No, no, no, not possible. It’s only been a few days since August saw her, less than an hour since she heard from her. That song was just on the radio. She doesn’t completely understand this tether between them, but it can’t be that fragile. Jane can’t be gone. She can’t be.

She drops down onto the floor, panic prickling along the bones of her fingers and wrists.

August didn’t have enough time. They’ve spent months digging Jane up, one scoop at a time, and she’s supposed to live. Jane is supposed to have a life, even if it’s not with her.

The track bends, and August stumbles. Her shoulders hit the metal wall of the car.

Maybe she missed her. Maybe she can get off at the next stop and try another car. Maybe she can grab a train in the opposite direction and Jane will be there, like always, book in hand and a mischievous smile. Maybe there’s still time. Maybe—

She turns her head, glancing through the window at the end of the car.

There’s someone sitting in the last seat of the next car over, absently looking back at her. The collar of her jacket’s flipped up around her jaw, and her dark hair is falling in her eyes. She looks miserable.