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right?
Besides
, I tell myself,
it’ll be ten more seconds, at most. What could happen in ten seconds?
    And then the elevator stops.
    And the lights go out.

Chapter 4
    J
axon
    A UGUST 28, 7:45 PM
    A t home, our power goes out all the time. We live on the top floor of an old brownstone, which my dad would describe as “quirky” and my mom would deride as “broke-ass.” (Our landlady tries to fix everything herself, but she’s eighty-two, so mostly she relies on a glue gun and a bottle of Drano.) If we have the TV on and someone plugs in the toaster, a fuse blows. And forget about summer. If we want to run the AC we have to turn off almost all the lights in the house. So I’m used to the dark, but the way the elevator shudders and screeches to a stop is still freaky.
    “Aw, shit,” I say, and there’s a sharp intake of breath behind me. The girl. I forgot about the girl. I only got a glimpse of her when I stepped in, since I was trying to make way for the old couple. But she has long dark hair, I remember, and a pretty face. Which means I’m probably going to make a fool of myself. My heart thumps so loud in my chest I’m sure she must be able to hear it.
    “Sorry,” I say with a laugh. “I’ve just had a long day.”
    No answer.
    It’s funny; I forget sometimes how I might look to other people. I could be reading
The Great Gatsby
on the 3 train, or walking down the street listening to a podcast on my phone, or coming out of my orthodontist’s office with Invisalign braces feeling like the biggest nerd on the planet, but some people don’t notice anything but an almost-six-foot-tall black man. After Trayvon Martin got shot in Florida, Mom wouldn’t let me wear a hoodie for six months.
    “I’m Jaxon,” I say into the darkness, trying to make the most of my warm, deep voice, which makes my sisters laugh when I do impressions of radio deejays. (
“And now, a blast from the past going out to my girl Ameerah, who loves meatballs, Kanye West, and using up all the hot water in the shower, heeeeeere’s Sister Sledge, with ‘We Are Family’!”
)
    But the girl stays silent, and after a minute I start to wonder if she might actually be deaf. “That’s Jaxon with an X,” I add, just to fill the dead air. “Not, like, the seventh president. Or Michael.”
    Still nothing. Man, I’m striking out like A-Rod in the 2011 ALDS. But then, finally, a thin, nervous voice says, “Devorah.”
    “All right, Devorah, I’m going to press the call button,” I say. “Hang tight.”
Hang tight?
I shake my head at my staggering lack of smoothness. The stakes for my redemption are rising with every stupid word out of my mouth. Now I’m going to have to try to get us out of the elevator MacGyver style to regain any shred of dignity.
    I run my fingers over the wall where I know the buttons should be, trying to count floors and guess where the HELP button might fall on the bumpy grid. The worst that can happen is I press the alarm bell, which won’t win me any suave points but will still help our case. I tentatively press one button, then the next, and when nothing happens I start punching them harder, hitting everything I can.
    “Nothing,” I say with a sigh, finally giving up. Devorah doesn’t react. In fact, I haven’t heard her move
once
, not even just to shift her weight or swallow. I realize she must be scared, or maybe even claustrophobic. I need to make her feel comfortable.
    I reach into my back pocket for my phone—even the subways get reception now, and we’re barely underground in here—but there are no bars. I hold it up above my head, and its light gives me a few feet of visibility. The elevator is deep, maybe eight feet long to accommodate gurneys, and Devorah is backed into a corner, clutching a rail with each hand. Even though her face is a mask of fear, and despite the low light, I can tell I was wrong. She’s not just pretty, she’s
beautiful
. I can feel my mouth getting dry. “Is it okay if