small a physical space as possible. Snowden
kept looking up instead of around, trying to ignore the fact that he was standing on a bare roof, with loose gravel underfoot,
the only thing keeping him from falling off the edge being friction and willpower. When the basket holding his new boss finally
tapped down, Snowden smiled broadly with relief as Cyrus Marks made to exit, unhinged the nest's door like he was preparing
to leave the balloon behind. When Marks stepped back from the open gate and gestured instead for his new employees to climb
aboard, Snowden fixed his grin into place and made a point to get on last, as if that would save him a moment's horror.
The balloon operators quickly diminished from reassuring figures to smudges of color you had to squint to differentiate. They
were high enough that both the East and Hudson rivers could be seen as mirrored strips all the way south toward their meeting,
glancing north that wet slash that separated Manhattan from the Bronx looked like a fresh cut, like the freed island was moments
away from floating over toward New Jersey.
Snowden gripped the side railing so fiercely he became certain he was going to break a piece off, counting down from twenty
and looking at his feet when the urge to roll up in a ball threatened to overcome him. It was several minutes into his own
drama before he noticed that the other two participants in the Second Chance Program were holding the edge with equal vigor.
Even Lester, dressed in a patchwork suit that expressed every shade between pure white and dark brown, had wrapped himself
tightly around one of the cables that attached their basket to the floating ball above, his other bejeweled hand resting atop
a gentleman's cane, a hesitant nod to fashion. The only one not holding on was the congressman, and that was Snowden's first
impression that the man was insane. Even when they came to the end of the balloon's tether, the tension sending them swiftly
east and bouncing from the wind's pressure, the congressman just bent what little legs he had and remained standing, hands
in his pockets.
"The Second Chance Program will make you real estate agents, but you'll become more than that, much more. I'm giving you the
biggest thing you never had, what every man needs if he's going to accomplish great things in his life. I'm giving you a mission."
Marks walked forward, stopped in front of Lester and held his hand out without looking, pausing until his subordinate figured
out what he wanted and put the cane into it.
"See that down there at the bottom, that cluster of skyscrapers off to the left?" Marks pointed the stick south. "That's Wall
Street. There used to be a real wall there, hundreds of years ago in the seventeenth century. The whole of New York City fit
below it, on that tiny tip of land. The rest," the congressman made a sweeping motion with the cane that included all the
eye could see in its entirety, "was trees, brush, and Indians. The first blacks on this island were forced to live right by
that wall, on the woods side, unprotected. Allowed to farm and mind their own only because they'd serve as a buffer in case
the natives attacked. The sounds of their slaughter as an alarm system."
Congressman Marks shook Lester's cane over the edge as he talked, his grip light and floppy. If that thing fell, somebody
far below would die a painful and posthumously embarrassing death, but Marks clearly wasn't thinking about this, too focused
ahead to see the world around him.
"They've always done us like that. As the city's grown, they've always displaced us, pushed us to the periphery. See the dome
of Madison Square Garden? That land was ours. Used to be the Tenderloin District, but now it's the Garden, the post office,
Perm Station. That complex farther up there, that's Lincoln Center. It sits on land that used to be part of a black neighborhood
called San Juan Hill. Do you know what happened to
kept looking up instead of around, trying to ignore the fact that he was standing on a bare roof, with loose gravel underfoot,
the only thing keeping him from falling off the edge being friction and willpower. When the basket holding his new boss finally
tapped down, Snowden smiled broadly with relief as Cyrus Marks made to exit, unhinged the nest's door like he was preparing
to leave the balloon behind. When Marks stepped back from the open gate and gestured instead for his new employees to climb
aboard, Snowden fixed his grin into place and made a point to get on last, as if that would save him a moment's horror.
The balloon operators quickly diminished from reassuring figures to smudges of color you had to squint to differentiate. They
were high enough that both the East and Hudson rivers could be seen as mirrored strips all the way south toward their meeting,
glancing north that wet slash that separated Manhattan from the Bronx looked like a fresh cut, like the freed island was moments
away from floating over toward New Jersey.
Snowden gripped the side railing so fiercely he became certain he was going to break a piece off, counting down from twenty
and looking at his feet when the urge to roll up in a ball threatened to overcome him. It was several minutes into his own
drama before he noticed that the other two participants in the Second Chance Program were holding the edge with equal vigor.
Even Lester, dressed in a patchwork suit that expressed every shade between pure white and dark brown, had wrapped himself
tightly around one of the cables that attached their basket to the floating ball above, his other bejeweled hand resting atop
a gentleman's cane, a hesitant nod to fashion. The only one not holding on was the congressman, and that was Snowden's first
impression that the man was insane. Even when they came to the end of the balloon's tether, the tension sending them swiftly
east and bouncing from the wind's pressure, the congressman just bent what little legs he had and remained standing, hands
in his pockets.
"The Second Chance Program will make you real estate agents, but you'll become more than that, much more. I'm giving you the
biggest thing you never had, what every man needs if he's going to accomplish great things in his life. I'm giving you a mission."
Marks walked forward, stopped in front of Lester and held his hand out without looking, pausing until his subordinate figured
out what he wanted and put the cane into it.
"See that down there at the bottom, that cluster of skyscrapers off to the left?" Marks pointed the stick south. "That's Wall
Street. There used to be a real wall there, hundreds of years ago in the seventeenth century. The whole of New York City fit
below it, on that tiny tip of land. The rest," the congressman made a sweeping motion with the cane that included all the
eye could see in its entirety, "was trees, brush, and Indians. The first blacks on this island were forced to live right by
that wall, on the woods side, unprotected. Allowed to farm and mind their own only because they'd serve as a buffer in case
the natives attacked. The sounds of their slaughter as an alarm system."
Congressman Marks shook Lester's cane over the edge as he talked, his grip light and floppy. If that thing fell, somebody
far below would die a painful and posthumously embarrassing death, but Marks clearly wasn't thinking about this, too focused
ahead to see the world around him.
"They've always done us like that. As the city's grown, they've always displaced us, pushed us to the periphery. See the dome
of Madison Square Garden? That land was ours. Used to be the Tenderloin District, but now it's the Garden, the post office,
Perm Station. That complex farther up there, that's Lincoln Center. It sits on land that used to be part of a black neighborhood
called San Juan Hill. Do you know what happened to
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