2
The steps down to the Columbus Circle subway station were crammed with people. New Yorkers looking harassed, tourists looking confused. A man with steel drums thumped out “O Christmas Tree” with a red-and-white top hat sitting in front of him for tips. The sun had started to set, and New York was ready for Christmas magic in a way only a city built on shining lights and commercialism could ever be.
“How long do you think we have?” Devon asked.
“Before my mom freaks out?” I asked, not wanting to voice the other options for answers to that question.
“If we make good time to Beville,” Eric said, weaving through tourists with a vague look of disapproval on his face, “we should be able to get a full hour of training in and get you home before your mother begins to panic. It really would b
