the mayor says.
I calculate the odds. Chance of our being interrupted. Chance of my leaving the party early without attracting notice. Chance of the mayor passing away unexpectedly at a party where I happen to be.
Me, a new student. A stranger who has been here for less than a day.
It could be a mistake to act now. There must be no connection between me and the mayor’s death, and my disappearance afterward can raise no red flags.
I have to constantly gauge this in my work. When am I integrated enough into the social system to act without drawing attention? Sometimes I finish quickly and I’m gone before anyone knows I was there, sometimes I wait for an opening, and other times—
Other times fate makes the decision for me.
The mayor turns, and I see his face for the first time, one side lit by the desk lamp, the other in darkness.
It is a kind face. A famous face.
And the eyes. Something about them.
Sam has the same eyes.
No matter. We are in this room together. The door is closed.
I need only to complete my assignment and be back at the party before anyone discovers the body.
“How many apartments do you think we can see from here?” the mayor says.
He turns and gazes out the window.
I look out at a gorgeous, unobstructed view of the city over the roof of the Museum of Natural History. Windows above, windows below. Life framed and illuminated in neat squares.
“Thousands, maybe,” I say. I’m standing behind him, a few feet from his left shoulder.
“On the order of twelve thousand,” the mayor says.
“You’ve counted them?”
“I don’t need to. I count the number of windows viewed through a one-inch square of windowpane, then multiply by the overall size of the pane, then divide by the average number of windows per apartment.”
“This is why you run the city and I’m failing trig.”
He laughs.
I remove the pen. I spin it in my fingers without looking at it, find the trigger mechanism under my thumb.
“Twelve thousand in this one small slice of the city,” the mayor says. “Imagine you were looking for an apartment. With so many choices, how could you choose the right one for you?”
My father’s image pops into my head. My father in his office at the university. He’d take me to work occasionally, and I’d sit across from him while he graded papers at his desk. He’d look up fromtime to time and ask me a question—about life, relationships, school—and we’d argue back and forth about it. Even when I was ten years old he was training me how to think.
The mayor turns and looks at me.
“Most people don’t get to choose,” I say. “I mean, how many of those places can an average person afford?”
“Good point,” the mayor says.
He looks back out the window. I take a step closer.
The music changes. The bass slows.
Thump, thump.
“So you’re saying we don’t choose,” the mayor says. “Our limitations choose for us.”
“I think so. Yes.”
I remember Sam in the debate this morning. She has the same kind of intellectual curiosity. Now I know where she gets it from.
The mayor says, “But if your limitations make the choices for you, how do you know what it is you want?”
“Maybe it doesn’t matter what you want,” I say.
I take another step closer to the back of the mayor’s neck.
Striking distance.
“And yet we are defined by our desires,” the mayor says. “If you don’t know what you want, how can you know who you are?”
“I guess you make your best choice given your circumstances, and then you live with it.”
I twist the pen cap to the right.
It is weaponized. One click death, two clicks temporary coma.
“Maybe you’re right,” he says.
I click the pen once, and the pen point glides out, small and deadly.
“There is always a moment before you choose, isn’t there?” the mayor says. “A moment when you realize the choice you’re about to make could affect a number of people.”
“Your choices, maybe. Not mine.”
“Why is
I calculate the odds. Chance of our being interrupted. Chance of my leaving the party early without attracting notice. Chance of the mayor passing away unexpectedly at a party where I happen to be.
Me, a new student. A stranger who has been here for less than a day.
It could be a mistake to act now. There must be no connection between me and the mayor’s death, and my disappearance afterward can raise no red flags.
I have to constantly gauge this in my work. When am I integrated enough into the social system to act without drawing attention? Sometimes I finish quickly and I’m gone before anyone knows I was there, sometimes I wait for an opening, and other times—
Other times fate makes the decision for me.
The mayor turns, and I see his face for the first time, one side lit by the desk lamp, the other in darkness.
It is a kind face. A famous face.
And the eyes. Something about them.
Sam has the same eyes.
No matter. We are in this room together. The door is closed.
I need only to complete my assignment and be back at the party before anyone discovers the body.
“How many apartments do you think we can see from here?” the mayor says.
He turns and gazes out the window.
I look out at a gorgeous, unobstructed view of the city over the roof of the Museum of Natural History. Windows above, windows below. Life framed and illuminated in neat squares.
“Thousands, maybe,” I say. I’m standing behind him, a few feet from his left shoulder.
“On the order of twelve thousand,” the mayor says.
“You’ve counted them?”
“I don’t need to. I count the number of windows viewed through a one-inch square of windowpane, then multiply by the overall size of the pane, then divide by the average number of windows per apartment.”
“This is why you run the city and I’m failing trig.”
He laughs.
I remove the pen. I spin it in my fingers without looking at it, find the trigger mechanism under my thumb.
“Twelve thousand in this one small slice of the city,” the mayor says. “Imagine you were looking for an apartment. With so many choices, how could you choose the right one for you?”
My father’s image pops into my head. My father in his office at the university. He’d take me to work occasionally, and I’d sit across from him while he graded papers at his desk. He’d look up fromtime to time and ask me a question—about life, relationships, school—and we’d argue back and forth about it. Even when I was ten years old he was training me how to think.
The mayor turns and looks at me.
“Most people don’t get to choose,” I say. “I mean, how many of those places can an average person afford?”
“Good point,” the mayor says.
He looks back out the window. I take a step closer.
The music changes. The bass slows.
Thump, thump.
“So you’re saying we don’t choose,” the mayor says. “Our limitations choose for us.”
“I think so. Yes.”
I remember Sam in the debate this morning. She has the same kind of intellectual curiosity. Now I know where she gets it from.
The mayor says, “But if your limitations make the choices for you, how do you know what it is you want?”
“Maybe it doesn’t matter what you want,” I say.
I take another step closer to the back of the mayor’s neck.
Striking distance.
“And yet we are defined by our desires,” the mayor says. “If you don’t know what you want, how can you know who you are?”
“I guess you make your best choice given your circumstances, and then you live with it.”
I twist the pen cap to the right.
It is weaponized. One click death, two clicks temporary coma.
“Maybe you’re right,” he says.
I click the pen once, and the pen point glides out, small and deadly.
“There is always a moment before you choose, isn’t there?” the mayor says. “A moment when you realize the choice you’re about to make could affect a number of people.”
“Your choices, maybe. Not mine.”
“Why is
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