Pier 84 at dawn smells like salt and diesel and the particular cold that settles into bones before sunrise.
I arrive at six. Been standing here watching the Hudson turn from black to gray to something almost blue. Trying not to catalog all the ways this conversation could end.
She tells me about Ava, then walks away. Thanks me for respecting her privacy, closes the door I've been waiting outside for weeks.
She reveals something about Ava's father that makes my presence impossible. Complicated custody. An ex who's returning. A story I can't compete with.
She changes her mind. Realizes that inviting me into her daughter's world means risk she's not ready to take.
My phone reads 6:28.
Two minutes.
A jogger passes. Earbuds in, focused on pace instead of the man standing at the pier's en
