I stop and adjust my hat. It’s one of my grandmother’s old numbers, with a long green plume and a small net. For some reason, I thought it was appropriate. I wanted to arrive in New York wearing a hat.

It was part of my fantasy.

“Watch where you’re going!”

“Get out of the way.”

“Do you know where you’re going?” This from a middle-aged lady wearing a black suit and an even blacker scowl.

“The exit? Taxis?” I ask.

“That way,” she says, pointing to yet another escalator that seems to rise straight up into nothingness.

I get on, balancing my suitcase behind me. A man, weaving this way and that, comes up behind me — striped pants, jaunty cap, eyes hidden behind dark green glass in gold-rimmed sunglasses. “Hey, little girl, you look lost.”

“I’m not,” I say.

“You sure?” he asks. “I got a real sweet place you can stay, real nice place, hot shower and pretty clothes. Let me help you with that bag, honey, that looks real heavy...”

“I have a place to stay. Thank you.” He shrugs and walks away with a rolling gait.

“Hey! Hey,” someone yells impatiently. “You want a taxi or not? I don’t have all day here...”

“Yes, please,” I say breathlessly, hauling my suitcase across the sidewalk to a yellow cab. I plunk the suitcase onto the curb, place my Carrie handbag on top of it, and lean into the open window.

“How much?” I ask.

“Where you going?”

I turn around to pick up my bag so I can give him the address.

Huh?

“Just a minute, sir...”

“What’s the problem?”

“Nothing.” I scramble around my suitcase, looking for my bag. It must have fallen. My heart pounds as I flush in embarrassment and dread.

It’s gone.

“Where to?” the cabdriver snaps again.

“Are you going to take this cab or not?” demands a man in a gray suit.

“No — I — er...” He brushes past me, gets in the taxi, and slams the door.

I’ve been robbed.

I stare into the open maw of Penn Station. No. I cannot go back. Will not.

But I have no money. I don’t even have the address of the place I’m staying. I could call George, but I don’t have his number either.

Two men walk by, carrying an enormous boom box. A disco song blares from the speakers — “Macho Man.”

I pick up my suitcase. A tide of people carries me across Seventh Avenue where I’m deposited in front of a bank of phone booths.

“Excuse me,” I call out to various passersby. “Do you have a dime? A dime for a phone call?” I would never do this back in Castlebury — beg — but I figure I’m not in Castlebury anymore.

And I’m desperate.

“I’ll give you fifty cents for your hat.” A guy with arched eyebrows regards me in amusement.

“My hat?”

“That feather,” he says. “It’s too much.”

“It belonged to my grandmother.”

“Of course it did. Fifty cents. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it.”

He places five dimes in my hand.

I drop the first coin into the slot.

“Operator.”

“Do you have a number for George Carter?”

“I’ve got fifteen George Carters. What’s the address?”

“Fifth Avenue?”

“I have a William Carter on Fifth Avenue and Seventy-second Street. Would you like the number?”

“Yes.”

She gives me the number and I repeat it over and over in my head as I drop my second dime into the slot.

A woman picks up. “Hello?” she asks in a strong German accent.

“Does George Carter live there?”

“Mr. Carter? Yes, he does.”

Relief. “Can I talk to him?”

“He’s out.”

“What?”

“He’s out. I don’t know when he’ll be back. He never tells me.”

“But...”

“Do you want to leave a message?”

“Yes,” I say, defeated. “Can you tell him Carrie Bradshaw called?”

I hang up the phone and put my hand over my face. Now what? I’m suddenly overwhelmed — exhausted, frightened, and charged with adrenaline. I pick up my suitcase and start walking.

I manage one block; then I have to stop. I sit on top of my suitcase to rest. Crap. I now have thirty cents, some clothes, and my journal.

Suddenly, I get up, open my suitcase, and pull out my journal. Is it possible? I had my journal with me that day at Donna LaDonna’s house.

I paw through the pages, past my notes on the queen bee and the Nerd King and Lali and Sebastian — and, finally, there it is, all alone on its own page, written in Donna LaDonna’s loopy scrawl and circled three times.

A number. And underneath, a name.

I haul my suitcase to the corner, to another bank of phone booths. My hand shakes as I push my third dime into the slot. I dial the number. The phone rings and rings. Seven times. Nine. Ten. On the twelfth ring, someone picks up.

“You must be awfully desperate to see me.” The voice is languid, sexy. Like the owner of the voice has just gotten out of bed.

I gasp, uncertain of what to say.

“Hello? Is that you, Charlie?” Teasing. “If you’re not going to talk to me...”

“Wait!” I squeak.

“Yes?” The voice becomes suddenly suspicious.

I take a deep breath.

“Samantha Jones?” I ask.