Jay’s Karaoke sits at the center of a Koreatown strip mall between a Boba Land 2 and Sookie’s Hair Emporium.

The door to the latter bursts open as I pass. “Yah, Jenny-yah!” Sookie Kim, owner and hairdresser, stands in the doorway holding a plastic bag and a flat iron. “Aren’t you going to say hello?”

“Hello, Mrs. Kim,” I say, then stretch my neck to look over her shoulder where three middle-aged women are seated in a row beneath hair dryers watching a K-drama on a wall-mounted TV. “Hi, Mrs. Lim, Mrs. Chang, Mrs. Sutjiawan.”

“Hi, Jenny,” they chorus back, waving at me briefly before returning their attention to the couple on screen who appear to be heading toward a K-drama kiss. The man leans his head one way, the woman the other, their lips touch and hold as the camera pans out with dramatic music soaring in the background.

As the credits start to roll, the ladies collapse back in their chairs with dreamy sighs. Well, two of them do.

“That’s it?” Mrs. Sutjiawan throws her house slipper at the TV.

“Here.” Ignoring the women, Mrs. Kim hands over the plastic bag she’s holding, which on closer inspection appears to be food wrapped up in a H Mart grocery bag and knotted tight. “This is for you to share with your mother.”

“Thank you.” I adjust my tote on my shoulder and bow slightly as I take the offering.

Mrs. Kim clicks her tongue. “Your mother works too much! She should be at home more, looking after her daughter.”

I’m almost certain my mother works the same amount of hours at the office as Mrs. Kim does at her own business, but I have a strong enough sense of self-preservation not to point this out. Instead, I continue to give off respectable-young-person-vibes and smile politely. It seems to be working because Mrs. Kim’s face softens. “Your mother must be so proud of you, Jenny. A good student. And so gifted in cello! I tell my Eunice that good music schools only take the best, but does she listen?”

“Sookie-ssi!” one of the ladies calls from inside.

“Coming,” she yells back. As she heads into her shop, I make my way next door.

Ever since Eunice and I started entering the same classical music competitions in seventh grade, Mrs. Kim has been comparing the two of us. With the compliments she’s always giving me, I shudder to think what Eunice is receiving on the opposite end. Lately, I haven’t seen her at any of the competitions. She wasn’t at last Saturday’s, the results of which are currently burning a hole through my jacket pocket. If Mrs. Kim were to read what the judges said about me, she wouldn’t be so quick with her praise.

The bells above the door at Jay’s Karaoke chime my arrival.

“Be right there!” Uncle Jay’s voice travels from behind the curtain that separates the bar from the kitchen.

Edging around the counter, I drop my tote and open the mini fridge to stuff Mrs. Kim’s Tupperware between bottles of soju.

Seven years ago, Dad and Uncle Jay bought this place in order to fulfill a dream they’d had since they were kids, to own and manage a karaoke business together.

Uncle Jay isn’t related to me by blood, but he and my dad were like brothers. After my dad passed, it was Uncle Jay who asked my mom if I could come work for him after school. At first Mom was against it, worried a part-time job wouldn’t leave enough time for school and orchestra practice, but she came around when Uncle Jay said I could do my homework during off hours. Plus I practically grew up here. I have memories of Dad behind the bar, laughing with Uncle Jay as he whipped up his latest concoction, not forgetting a special non-alcoholic drink just for me.

For years, I wasn’t allowed in the bar—Mom was afraid it’d bring back memories—but so far it’s been fun, and the memories, only good ones.

I spray the counter with cleaning solution and wipe it down, then move onto the tall bar tables. There aren’t any customers in the main room, though a glimpse down the hall shows a few of the private karaoke rooms are occupied.

“Hey, Jenny, thought that was you.” Uncle Jay emerges, holding two paper plates of steaming food. “Today’s special is bulgogi tacos. Hungry?”

“Starving.” I hop onto a barstool and Uncle Jay places the plate in front of me, two tacos with bulgogi marinated in his own special sauce, lettuce, tomatoes, cheese, and kimchi.

While I inhale my food, Uncle Jay turns on Netflix above the bar, scrolling through available movies.

This is our ritual. The bar doesn’t get busy until later in the night, so we spend early evenings eating and watching movies, specifically Asian gangster films.

“Here we are,” Uncle Jay says, landing on a classic. The Man from Nowhere also known as Ajeossi. An action thriller about an embittered ex-cop whose young neighbor is kidnapped and goes on a journey to bring her back home. It’s like the Korean Taken, but better. Because it has Won Bin. Won Bin makes everything better.

Uncle Jay puts on the subtitles and we eat and watch the film, commenting on the believability that somehow Won Bin is an ajeossi, a middle-aged man, at thirty-three. When customers come in, he turns the volume down and leads them to their rooms. I keep an eye on the monitor that shows whether someone has pushed a call button, so that I can take the customers’ orders and bring them their food while Uncle Jay handles their drink orders.

By the time nine o’clock rolls around, half the rooms are filled and the movie is finished; instead, K-pop blares over the speakers. Every month, Uncle Jay streams YouTube compilations of the top music videos of the month on the TV in the bar. I watch as a group of girls in color-coordinated outfits performs a complicated and synchronized dance to a catchy electro-pop song.

Unlike some of the kids at my school, I never could get into K-pop, or any pop, really. A playlist of my life would include Bach, Haydn, and Yo-Yo Ma.

“Didn’t you have an important competition this week?” Uncle Jay inspects a glass behind the counter, drying it with a rag.

My stomach sinks. “Saturday.” I give him a bitter smile. “I got the results back this morning.”

“Yeah?” He frowns. “How’d you do?”

“I won.”

“What? Really? Congrats, girl!” He pumps his fist in the air. “My niece is a champ,” he adds to the couple sitting at the bar, startling them from their tacos.

“Yeah . . .” I trace the letters of two sets of initials carved on the surface of the counter and linked by a heart.

“What’s up?” He puts the glass and rag down on the counter. “Something’s bothering you, I can tell.”

“The judges left me feedback.” I take out the paper from my pocket, which has been noticeably crumpled, then smoothed out, then folded into a square, and hand it over. “It’s supposed to help me improve before the next competition.”

As Uncle Jay reads the note, I replay the words I’ve already memorized.

While Jenny is a talented cellist, proficient in all the technical elements of music, she lacks the spark that would take her from perfectly trained to extraordinary.

Next year, hundreds of cellists just like me will be applying to the best music schools in the country. In order to get into one of the top schools, I can’t just be perfect. I have to be extraordinary.

Uncle Jay hands the paper back. “Talented and technically skilled. Sounds about right.”

I stuff the note deep into my pocket. “You missed the part where they called me a soulless robot.”

He laughs. “I definitely missed that part.” Though he must feel a tad sympathetic because he adds, “I can see that you’re disappointed. But it’s just critique. You get them all the time.”

“It’s not just that it’s critique,” I say, trying to put my frustration into words. “It’s that there’s nothing to improve upon. Emotion in music is expressed through pitch and dynamics. I’m great at both of those things.”

Uncle Jay gives me a sidelong glance.

“They said I lack spark!”

He sighs, leaning against the bar. “I think it’s more that you haven’t found your spark yet, something that lights that fire within you to go after what you want. For example, your dad and me deciding to open up this karaoke bar, even though so many people told us it was a waste of money. Even your mom, though seeing as how she didn’t grow up with much, I don’t blame her. We knew it’d be hard and that we might not succeed but we still tried because it was our dream.”

“But . . .” I say slowly, “what does any of that have to do with impressing music schools?”

“Here, let me explain it to you in Jenny-speak. You know that movie we watched earlier tonight? Ajeossi. There’s a quote Won Bin’s character says that roughly translates to, ‘People who live for tomorrow should fear the people who live for today.’ Do you know why that is?”

“No,” I drawl, “but you’re going to tell me.”

“Because the people who live for tomorrow don’t take risks. They’re afraid of the consequences. While the people who live for today have nothing to lose, so they fight tooth and nail. I’m saying that maybe you should stop caring so much about your future, about getting into music school, about what’ll come after, and . . . live a little. Have new experiences, make new friends. I promise you can get the life you want now, if you just live in it.” The door chime jingles as customers walk into the bar.

“Welcome!” Uncle Jay calls out, leaving me to stew in my thoughts as he rounds the counter to greet them.

I think about texting Mom, except that I know what she’d say; I should practice more and maybe schedule additional lessons with Eunbi. Also not to listen to Uncle Jay. If Uncle Jay is all about living in the moment and following your dreams, my mom is much more practical. I can have a successful career as a cellist but only if I work hard and focus completely.

Anything outside of that is a distraction.

Though, it’s not like I haven’t been working hard—Mrs. Kim, and presumably Eunice, would know—and still I got that critique.

Maybe Uncle Jay has a point.

“Don’t worry about it, kiddo,” he says returning from helping out the customers. “You’ll figure it out. Why don’t you go home early, rest up? Bomi should be here soon.” Bomi is the surly UCLA student who usually works the night shift. “Just check in on room eight before you do. The time ran out on their machine but they haven’t left yet.”

I sigh. “Okay.” Slipping off the barstool, I trudge down the hall. Confronting customers is one of my least favorite tasks at Jay’s. Why can’t they just read the rules?

In most karaoke joints in the States, customers are charged at the end of the night, usually by the hour, and the customers are the ones who keep track of the time and how much they’re spending. Uncle Jay runs his karaoke business like they do in Korea, charging in advance for a set amount of time that appears as a countdown clock on the screen inside the room. That way, people aren’t overcharged. If they want to sing for longer, they can add more time to their room. Mom always says Uncle Jay doesn’t really have a head for business.

The door to room eight is closed with no sound coming from inside, but that makes sense if their time has run out. I knock once, then open the door.

This is the VIP room, the largest in the bar that can hold up to twenty people.

I’m surprised to find a single person in the room. He’s a guy around my age, seated in the corner with his back against the wall and his eyes closed.

I look for evidence of another person, but the long table is empty of food or drinks. If he’s renting the room by himself, he must be wealthy. His clothes look expensive. A silky shirt clings to his shoulders, and his long legs are clad in smooth black pants. His left arm is in a cast, but a Rolex glints from his right wrist—and are those sleeve tattoos?

What teenager has sleeve tattoos?

I look back to his face, startled to see that his eyes are open. I wait for him to speak, but he remains silent. I cough to clear my throat. “Your time expired. If you would like to use the room longer, it’s fifty dollars an hour. Otherwise, you need to leave.”

That came out ruder than I intended. I blame the judges for putting me in a bad mood.

The silence that follows seems heightened with the strobe lights issuing from the disco ball on the ceiling.

Maybe he can’t speak English? He might be from Korea. No American kid is this stylish.

I try again, this time in Korean. “Sigan Jinasseoyo. Nagaseyo.” Literally, “Time’s up. Get out.” Though with honorifics, so technically I’m being polite.

“I heard you the first time,” he says in English. His speaking voice is low and smooth. He has a slight accent, a sort of warm curl around his words.

I feel an inexplicable blush rise in my cheeks. “Then why didn’t you say something?”

“I was trying to decide whether I should be offended.”

I point to the large laminated book at the center of the table that lists all the available karaoke songs by title. “The rules are written on the cover of the songbook. They stipulate that if you haven’t purchased more time after fifteen minutes, you have to leave immediately.”

He shrugs. “I’m out of money.”

I eye his Gucci loafers. “I highly doubt that.”

“They’re not mine.”

I frown. “You stole them?”

He pauses, then says slowly, “You could say that.”

Is he lying? Somehow I don’t think so. I hadn’t seen him come into the bar. How long has he been in this room? Alone. Who does that, unless they’re hiding from something? And maybe it’s because I just watched Ajeossi, but my mind jumps to one conclusion.

I step closer. He seems to mirror my movements, leaning away from the wall.

“Do you—” I drop my voice low. “Do you need help?” In crime dramas, the people my age aren’t ever in the gang because they want to be.

He shrugs. “Right now, fifty dollars would be great.”

I shake my head. “I’m asking if you’re in trouble? Like . . . with a gang.”

For a moment, he looks taken aback, his eyes widening slightly. Then my words seem to click into place and he drops his gaze. “Ah, so you’ve guessed it.”

I nod fervently. “You must be sixteen, seventeen . . .” I press. “There are laws to protect minors in the United States.” Maybe they’re holding something over him, like the safety of a sibling or a friend. “If you need help, you only have to ask.”

There’s a short pause, then he says softly, “If I asked you to save me, would you?”

My heart breaks a little. “I can try.”

He lifts his eyes to mine, and my breath catches. It’s almost unfair that someone could be so . . . beautiful. His skin is flawless. He has dark eyes and soft hair, and a full, cherry-red mouth.

He drops his head and his shoulders start to shake. Is he . . . crying? I move closer, only to see that he’s . . .

Laughing. He even slaps his knee with his good hand.

What a jerk! I was concerned for him.

I stomp out the door.

In the foyer, Uncle Jay glances up from where he’s adding hours to one of the rooms. He takes one look at my expression and sighs. “Kid’s not leaving, huh? Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

He starts to come out from behind the bar, but I hold up a hand. “Wait.” His words from earlier echo back to me. Live a little. “I’ve got this.”

The boy is still sitting in the corner when I enter the room. And maybe I should be ticked off that he clearly didn’t listen to me, but it doesn’t matter.

“Here’s the deal,” I say. “I added an extra twenty minutes to your room.”

He arches a brow. “How generous.”

“It’s not a gift. I challenge you to a karaoke battle.”

He stares at me blankly.

“Let me show you.” I scoot into the seat opposite him, pick up the device that controls the karaoke machine, and press the Score button. “Now the machine will score our performance once the song is over,” I explain. “If you win, I’ll give you another hour in this room. No charge. If I win, you have to leave.”

I’m a little surprised that I’m doing this. I would never in a million years think that I would challenge a stranger—a boy my own age who’s probably the most attractive person I’ve ever seen in real life—to a karaoke battle. But after getting the feedback from the judges, I’m determined to do something about it.

Maybe Uncle Jay was right. Maybe getting out of my comfort zone and putting myself out there will make a difference.

I bite my lip and wait as the boy mulls over my offer. Honestly, it’s a win-win situation for him. Without paying, he would have to leave eventually. So either he has to do what he was always going to do, or he gets a free hour in relatively safe comfort.

Finally he taps the songbook with his good hand. “All right. I’ll play your game. But you’re about to be disappointed. I’m actually decent at singing.”

From the smirk on his face, I can tell he’s already planning his hour of squatter-living. Little does he know that though I might not have the best voice, karaoke machines score on pitch, and mine is perfect.

He starts to push the songbook across the table.

“I won’t be needing that.” I pick up the controller and look up the artist by name, plugging in my selection. The instrumentals for Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” begin to play.

I stand, microphone in hand, then proceed to belt out the song. I mostly chose this one because of the fast pace. I have no time to think or doubt myself when I’m trying to breathe. It doesn’t hurt that it also has lyrics like “Walk out the door” and “You’re not welcome anymore.”

When it’s over, I collapse onto the couch. My score appears on the screen: 95.

The boy taps his good hand on the table in a slow clap. “That was . . . something else.”

I’m breathless; my cheeks are flushed. “We only have eight minutes on the clock. Hurry, pick a song.”

I look up to find his eyes on me. “You choose for me.”

“Are you sure?” I pick up the book and turn to the back where all the recent songs have been added. “You’re going to regret this.” There aren’t many choices for American songs, but the Korean songs fill up two pages. I read the artist names aloud.

“XOXO? What kind of name is that?” I laugh.

He scowls. “Seven minutes.”

There are so many possibilities. I’m almost gleeful with power. “Do you prefer a song in English or Korean?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I mean, we’re at a noraebang, you might as well sing a Korean song. I just don’t know many.”

“Really? Not even, like, the anthem?”

I’m about to answer with a snarky comeback, when I hesitate, remembering. “I know one . . .”

“What’s it called?”

“I don’t know the title.” I hum the melody by memory, but it’s been so long since I last heard it. “Sorry.” I shake my head, feeling silly for having brought it up.

“Gohae.”

I blink, startled. “What?”

“‘Confession.’ That’s the title of the song. It’s famous.”

I stare at him. I can’t believe he knows it, and just from a few bars of melody. “It was one of my dad’s favorites.”

“It was mine too,” he says.

I frown. “It was your favorite song?”

“My father’s.”

There’s a beat of silence between us as we both recognize we’re speaking of our fathers as if they’re no longer here.

Reaching out, he takes the controller, and with one hand, switches the language from English to Hangeul and plugs in the numbers, his fingers quick and sure.

When the instrumentals begin to play, I feel everything inside me go still. This is the song. I recognize the melody and the distinctive sound of a keyboard, then the boy starts to sing, and I forget to breathe.

I never paid attention to the lyrics before, but now they wrap around me like silk.

He sings about daring to love someone though the world would stand against them.

His voice is far from perfect, rough and not always on pitch, and yet there’s a rawness and vulnerability to every phrase, every word.

A memory washes over me, from five years ago, sitting cross-legged at the foot of my father’s hospital bed. We were playing cards on the blanket, and this song was playing in the background. And we were laughing. So hard that there were tears in our eyes, and I remembered thinking, I’m so happy. I never want this feeling to end. I want it to last forever.

But nothing ever does.

On the screen, a score appears: 86.

The time runs out on the machine. The boy gets to his feet, adjusting his cast. I instinctively stand to face him.

“Thank you,” he says, hesitantly. He then bows, and I bow back, which should be weird but for some reason isn’t.

I want to tell him that he should have won, that any judge would have scored his singing above mine. After all, a true musician doesn’t just perform a song but makes you feel something. And it’s clear with how my heart aches from the memory and the music, he has the spark. I want to ask him where it comes from, and how can I find it for myself.

But I say nothing and he quietly leaves the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

In the foyer, I find Bomi pulling a UCLA sweatshirt over her head. “Hey, Jenny,” she says, catching sight of me. “Are you going home?” She stuffs her sweatshirt and the rest of her belongings behind the bar. “Avoid Olympic and Normandie on your way out. There’s some sort of Korean festival going on and the streets are blocked.”

Uncle Jay sweeps back the curtain to the kitchens, holding a tray with a plate of kimchi fried rice topped with an egg.

Bomi doesn’t look up from where she’s exchanging her bag for mine. “Boss . . .” she begins, handing me mine across the counter, “can I get off early on Sunday? I have to study for an Econ final.”

“Sure, sure. I am nothing if not accommodating.” He glances at me. “Don’t forget to take your leftovers from the fridge.”

“It’s banchan, not leftovers,” I correct.

“Man,” Bomi laments, “I wish someone would give me side dishes. Instead I’m stuck with making ramen out of a rice cooker.”

Uncle Jay and I both stare at her. “Why don’t you use a stove?” I ask.

Bomi shrugs. “I’d rather not leave my room if I can help it.”

Uncle Jay hands her the tray. “So glad you could honor us with coming to work.”

I shake my head with a smile and lean down to retrieve Mrs. Kim’s banchan from the fridge. Standing, I hold the plastic bag of Tupperware to my chest. This is probably the best time to make my exit, but I linger behind the bar. Bomi switches the monitor to an indie rock playlist—her favorite genre of K-pop—before heading off down the hall to deliver the kimchi fried rice. At one of the tables in the foyer, four college-aged students hit their shot glasses together, celebrating the weekend.

I feel a tightness in my chest. Maybe Uncle Jay and Bomi need some help. I don’t have to leave. I need to wake up early for my cello lesson tomorrow, but maybe I could stay.

“Jenny, you’re still here?” Uncle Jay appears beside me, this time carrying a watermelon on a tray, halved and hollowed and filled with a mixture of watermelon, soju, and lime-soda. “You’ll miss the bus if you don’t head out soon.” He walks from behind the counter, calling over his shoulder. “Text me when you get home!”

I’ve been dismissed. Sighing, I adjust the strap of my tote higher on my shoulder and head toward the front door, pushing it open. Cool air washes over my face.

It’s almost ten o’clock and yet it’s as bright as day with all the neon lights issuing from the signboards of most businesses on the block. Sookie’s Hair Emporium is closed, but in the Boba Land 2, a pigtailed shopgirl chews bubblegum as she scrolls through the messages on her phone. On the corner, the Korean BBQ restaurant is hopping, groups of college students and business types chatting while they cook meat over charcoal grills.

I notice the bus parked at the curb, letting on passengers, and I hurry to the end of the line. After paying, I shuffle down the aisle, adjusting Mrs. Kim’s banchan as I reach up to take the handrail. I brace myself as the bus jerks forward and my bag hits the person sitting in one of the single passenger seats.

“Sorry!” I wince. The guy looks up.

It’s him. The boy from the karaoke bar.

“What are you doing here?” I blurt out. Though the answer is pretty obvious; he’s riding a bus. “I mean, I thought you said you didn’t have any money.”

He holds up a single-ride bus ticket. “What about you? Did you get off work?” He pauses, and then a small smirk forms on his perfect lips. “Or did you follow me here?”

I sputter. “I didn’t—”

“Are you going to take that seat?” A woman taps my shoulder, pointing to the seat behind him.

“Oh, no.” I move back so she can sit down, and now I’m just hovering here awkwardly over both of them. Turning around, I move to the other side of the bus, cheeks flushed from embarrassment.

The bus slows as it nears West 8th Street, letting on a bunch of college students and an elderly Korean grandmother, easily identifiable with her short gray hair in a perm. The students must have just come from a bar because their voices are loud and they smell like chicken and beer. Without a place to sit, they block up most of the aisle, chatting in groups as they hang onto the railings. They’re so preoccupied with one another, they don’t notice the grandmother trying to squeeze past them.

The bus pulls away from the curb. A look of fear flits across the grandmother’s face as she tries once more to get past the students. She looks up, but the handrail is too high for her to reach. The wheels hit a pothole and she stumbles.

“Watch out—” I lurch forward.

The boy from the karaoke bar catches her by the arm. “Halmeoni,” he addresses her in Korean. Her lips tremble at the sight of him. “Are you all right?” She nods that she’s okay. He leads her to the seat by the window, the one he’d previously occupied. “Please sit,” he says, indicating for her to take it. As she settles, she pats his arm, praising him in Korean.

I tear my gaze away. My heart is racing. She could have fallen. If he hadn’t noticed her and already made the choice to give her his seat, if he hadn’t had the quick reflexes to catch her, she would have.

The handrail to my right creaks as someone grabs hold of it.

I stare forward out the window as the bus takes a detour around a coned-off street lined with market stalls.

Beside me, the boy from the karaoke room leans forward, peering out the window. “What’s going on?”

I’m feeling generous toward him after that whole saving the halmeoni thing. “LA’s annual Korean festival. Apparently they blocked off some of the roads.” A crease forms between his brows and I realize that if he’s not from around here, he might not know the streets. “Where are you trying to go?”

“I’m not sure.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“I’m in the middle of running away.”

I wait for him to crack a smile, but his face is serious and a little sad.

“From gangsters?” I deadpan.

I feel a sense of satisfaction when he smiles.

“From . . .” His smile fades marginally. “Chaegim-kam. What’s the word in English?”

“Responsibility.” A word that could mean so many things, at least in the Korean community, from taking out the trash to behaving in a way that won’t bring shame to your family. Studying his reflection in the window, I wonder what responsibility he’s referring to.

I think back to earlier tonight, when I first entered the room in the karaoke bar. At that point, he’d been alone in there for an hour, maybe two. And now he’s on a bus without a destination in mind. A part of me—a large part—is curious about what he’s running away from, about why he felt like had to. But the other part remembers what it’s like, when the only way to escape the enormous feelings inside you is . . . to run.

“For what it’s worth,” I say, “I think it’s important to take time for yourself, even with responsibilities. You can’t be there for other people if you’re not first there for yourself.”

It feels weird giving advice to someone my age, but these are words I need to hear too. Luckily he doesn’t seem put off, mulling them over; his mouth has a contemplative edge to it. His eyes search mine and there’s an intensity to his gaze that does strange things to my heart.

“It’s not easy for me to believe something like that,” he says. Standing this close to each other I can see the color of his eyes, a rich, warm brown. “But I want to.”

Someone bumps into him from behind and he winces, letting out a soft curse. Moving slightly closer to me, he adjusts his cast. The guy who bumped into him—one of the university students—is joking around with his friends.

“Hey,” I say, annoyed at both this incident and earlier with the grandmother, “Can’t you see his arm is broken? Give him more space.”

Outside, the bus approaches the Olympic stop. The doors open behind us and a few passengers exit. The university student, clearly inebriated, looks confused why I’ve spoken to him. Then he sneers. “It’s a free country.”

“That’s right,” I shoot back. “You’re free to be a considerate human being or you’re free to be an asshole.”

Shocked silence follows this statement. The university student’s face starts to turn a peculiar shade of red. Oh, shit.

The boy and I make eye contact. He reaches for my hand. I don’t have to think twice. I grab it, and together we jump through the closing doors.