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single-family homes in various stages of disrepair. From here he can already smell the water, its stagnant summer scent of diesel and salt.
    The dark is lifting and Jonathan can make out Valentino Pier ahead stretching into the water like a long, horizontal ladder. He used to come down to the pier at sunset, but the skyline was an insult, its glittering lights a sad reminder. In the evenings, the pier itself became a trial. A place for couples. A scenic spot where the women who don’t speak to Jonathan at the Dockyard show off the neighborhood to their Manhattan friends. So he started coming down in the mornings instead. He usually has the tugboats and seabirds for company.
    He crosses the small park and heads onto the pier, passing a kid dressed in a low-rent imitation of the local dealers—nondescript baggy clothes that camouflage his frame. He juke-steps as Jonathan approaches, changes direction, and darts off toward the abandoned warehouses to the left of the pier.
    There’s a fog over the river hiding the skyline. It’s claimed both the Verrazano and Bayonne bridges, stolen Staten Island, and obscured most of the Jersey waterfront.
    A ferry crawls into view, creeping across the flat water like a caterpillar. The buoys are calling to each other, a long low horn followed by a quick high response as if the second buoy is mocking the first.
    There’s a little beach to the right of the pier, a collection of trash, sand, shale, and foam. It’s strewn with chunks of wood too splintered and waterlogged for driftwood. The logs move in and out with the modest waves. Some tangle with the pylons below the pier. They get trapped and beat against the metal supports, their rhythm welcoming the arriving day. Jonathan leans over to watch them.
    A girl is lying underneath the pier, faceup, beached on the jagged shale. Jonathan grips the pier and closes his eyes. The night was too late, the morning too soon. His insomnia has conjured worse imaginings. When he looks again, she is still there. Despite the suffocating air, Jonathan feels chilled.
    He climbs down to the dirty sand and is ankle deep in cold water. A film of oil coats his calves. The girl’s clothes are torn and muddy. She’s barefoot. There are small cuts on her hands and feet. Her face is unscathed. Her fingers and lips are shriveled. Even in the dismal light under the pier, Jonathan can make out the watery pallor of her skin. Her hair is spread over the rocks. It’s hard to tell whether it’s brown or blond since it’s matted and tangled with debris.
    Jonathan knows that he should squat down next to her. But perhaps it would be simpler to rush off, phone for help, or even let her be someone else’s discovery. Then he kneels at her side and listens for her breath. She too smells of seagulls.
    Jonathan presses an ear to her lips. They are cold and dry. At first, there is no sound. He is about to pull away, when her breath echoes in his ear. It’s short and sharp, as if catching on a pebble. Jonathan recoils, then presses his ear to listen again.
    He knows that if he screams for help, the tugboats will pass in silence and the empty warehouses will turn a blind eye.
    Jonathan rolls the girl’s head to one side and a foamy stream slides from her mouth. He wipes mud from her cheeks. It’s Valerie Marino, one of the few students from Red Hook who attends St. Bernardette’s.
    He lifts her carefully. Her limbs are long. She is dead weight.
    He presses his body into hers, trying to warm her. Her heart beats against his own chest—a faint staccato patter. He cradles her head over his shoulder and feels her clammy skin against his collarbone. It has been months since he has held anyone so close.
    He makes his way up the beach, trying not to stumble over the sharp and slippery rocks. Her body is cold. Her wet clothes stick to his skin. Holding her does nothing to ward off the suffocating day.

CHAPTER THREE
    F adi’s late. But few will notice. On one hand he can count the