I’ve got this. I’ve so got this.

I mean, it’s just walking to get something to eat. I exhale and push my shoulders back, glancing right and left, searching for a little burger joint I found on my phone while sitting through our dorm orientation.

New York is disorienting, in no small part because of the skyline. I know the New York City skyline. Everyone knows it— it’s in show credits, on post-cards, on screen savers, on news clips. The New York City skyline is familiar. It’s stretching, yawning, expansive and soothing in shades of gray-blue.

The New York City streets, however, are nothing like that. They’re congested, filled with obstacles— bags of trash, bike share racks, food vendors, people walking with their heads down and earphones plugged in. Shops and restaurants are tucked into impossibly tiny places, but have massive, flashing neon signs to draw attention. The city is set up on a grid system, which should make it easy to navigate, but actually just makes it feel like a labyrinth you must—but can’t— memorize.

The other girls in my dorm seem thrilled by the city’s complexity. I can’t help but wonder why I’m more scared than excited. Perhaps I just don’t fit in at school. I did community college before coming to New York, so I’m different from most of the other students.

Maybe twenty-one is too old to really become part of things here. Or maybe my mom and stepdad were right, and I’m just not a “city girl”.

Ugh— that’s the worst theory of all. I don’t want to find out those two are right about anything, frankly. The whole reason I’m here is to get away from them and their drama.

It was easier to move two hours away than it was to deal with that crap. I know my decision shocked them— in no small part because I wasn’t the first family member to pack up and leave town. They just never expected that I, good little Josie, would follow in my stepbrother’s footsteps.

But when I think about him, it’s like my insides freeze.

Along with the thought comes all those images, all those feelings, the secret yearnings, all unrequited.

That’s the past. I’m stepping into my future.

And with that, I walk into an intersection, hugging my arms to my chest even though it’s far from cold tonight. I think the burger place is up ahead, but you can’t see much in this city until you’re right up on it. Taxis zip by, the squeal of subway beneath me sends a rush of air along my legs, and bodega after bodega tempts me to just grab some snacks and rush back to the dorms, where I can hole up in solitude— relative solitude, anyway, since I’ve got my own room in a larger suite.

No. I’ve got this, I remind myself. I’ve spent a stupid amount of my life holed up in a bedroom, and it feels like however I spend my first night in New York will determine the next decade. I hug my arms closer around my shoulders as the wind kicks up the edges of my skirt, shoulder past a family hustling to make it through the crosswalk, trying to remember which road I’m supposed to take a left on.

I’ll have to check my phone. I sigh, stop in front of a brightly lit Duane Reade, and fish my phone out of my purse. My purse hangs limply on my wrist as I open up the map and search for the blinking blue dot in the midst of the Manhattan grid. It looks like I haven’t quite gone far enough yet— one more block.

Someone smacks into my shoulder; I instinctively look up with an apologetic smile, an explanation of why I was stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. There’s an arm at my shoulder, and for a moment it feels like someone is falling—after colliding into me— and I reach forward—

Except no. The person— the man— isn’t tripping. He’s grabbing my arm because he’s grabbing my purse. I make a shrieking sound of protest and try to twist away, but it happens lightning fast. He yanks the bag off my forearm, snagging my thumb and twisting it painfully in the process; I spin from the momentum and then fall over my own feet, tumbling onto the sidewalk. I get my bearings just in time to see him sprinting away— dashing through an intersection, then cutting to the left, vanishing around the corner.

I’m too stunned to do anything but gape from my spot on the concrete. Did that really just happen? I— my purse, my credit cards, my ID, my tampons. It’s all just gone, and I—

“Miss? You okay?” a man is saying in a thick accent. “Did he hurt you, miss?”

I look up; the man is silhouetted by the bright lights behind him, which causes me to squint. “He— he took my purse, I—”

“Yes, miss. Must be careful! They target tourists,” the man says, shaking his head. “Come up, come up, the ground is no good.”

Shaking, I lift myself to my feet. My phone is still clutched in my hand, but I’ve shattered the screen. My palms and knuckles are scraped, and I can feel a sizable bruise forming on my tailbone. I’m trying to smile at the man helping me, but I can’t seem to do anything but shake. My hand keeps reaching reflexively for my purse, but it’s gone—

“You have your phone, that is good! They take phones— took my son’s phone once,” the man says, pointing to a small sandwich shop that he must work in— he’s wearing an apron, I realize, and a cap. He’s my stepdad’s age, but his eyes are warm and genuine.

“I’m not a tourist,” I finally stammer, looking back to where the mugger disappeared. “I’m a student.”

“Oh! Tut tut,” the man says, shaking his head. I must not answer for a few beats too long, because the man says again, in a softer voice, “Are you sure you are okay, miss?”

My lips part. I look down at my hands, at the dots of blood welling up, the bits of dirt embedded in my skin. My ankle hurts too, I realize, and my chest feels tight— it’s like my body is allowing me one more shot of pain at a time, testing my tolerance. Unfortunately, it’s that chest tightening that’s a hair too far— my face contorts, my face tightens, and I try very hard not to cry, choking breath in, grimacing a smile at the stranger. He gives me a pitying look, and I rattle and shake my way into his restaurant, where he and a younger employee give me water and pita chips.

“Would you like me to call taxi?” the man asked me in a kind voice after I’ve rearranged the pita chips a thousand times, too shaken to eat them. They’ve offered to call the police, but I can tell from the look on their faces that it won’t do much good— I didn’t even see the guy’s face, and honestly, I don’t want to recount the whole thing just for posterity. I just want to go home.

“I can’t pay for a taxi. He took my wallet,” I say shakily. I meant to set up Uber on my phone before I moved, but I never did, so that’s out too. “I’ll have to walk back,” I say.

“Perhaps there is someone you could call, miss? A friend to come walk with you?”

But I don’t have any friends. I mean, not in a sad, lonely way, but in a practical way: I literally just moved here. I barely met my suite mates before they took off to their various rush week parties. On my dresser there’s a little campus security card, with a number we’re supposed to call if we need help…which does me no good here. There’s literally only one person in New York City whose number I have, and I haven’t seen him in…what’s it been? Three years?

But he’d come. I know he’d come. He’s family, after all. Sort of.

“I don’t think you should go alone, miss.”

“No, I— I have someone. I can call someone,” I say rockily, then carefully unlock my shattered phone screen. I scroll through my contacts and stare at his name for a few moments before tapping it to dial.

It rings.

It rings, and rings, and rings, and just when I think he’s not going to answer, he does.

“Hello?” his voice is full of doubt, like he’s certain he’s going to discover this is nothing more than a pocket dial.

“Hey, Xander? It’s, uh— it’s Jocelyn.”

“Josie,” he says, voice cool as always.

“Yeah. I’m in New York and, uh…look, I’ll explain later, but is there any way you can meet me somewhere? I need a ride home. Or a…walk home. Or something,” I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking— which inevitably makes it shake more.

“Where are you?” he says immediately, though his voice is calm and flat.

I give him the address, then hang up and sit back. I’m not shaking anymore, I realize, and from the look on his face, I can tell the man who saved me has noticed this too. He looks relieved.

“Someone is coming?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, looking at my phone. “My stepbrother.”