Snow Angel

1. New York, This is Mallory

I had never been to this part of New York before. When the subway slid through from the concrete tunnel of my neighbourhood into the slick, stone tiles of Katya's borough, it was like turning over a new page. I couldn't believe it - I half thought they were going to charge me extra just to stand in this tunnel.

Not that I had paid fare to begin with. I'd only been in the city for a week before I learned not to bother with the transit cards, or counting coins for fare at a window under the piercing gaze of the 55 year old divorcée to catch the subway to school. That's just what all the kids did in my neighbourhood, but I felt like they'd shoot me on sight at this stop.

Shit, right. This is my stop. I'd been so busy admiring the tiling I had almost missed it. Honestly, I could stare at that tile all the way to New Jersey. But I had a party to go to.

I clutched my black handbag close as I squeezed through the thick of people standing by the door - the subway never sleeps - and into the slurry of traffic of the station platform. I let its currents guide me to the stairwell, and propel me up into the city above.

It was a whole new world. This was not the New York I knew. This New York was polished, dignified, the New Yorkers of this New York didn't have to buy a removable lock on Amazon to put over top of theirs because the doorjamb wasn't thick enough to lock completely. These New Yorkers didn't fall asleep to the sound of rats scurrying along their bedroom walls, and cringe like the paws landed on their own backs.

No, these New Yorkers bought $7 almond milk cold brews on the way to big corporate internships, would pick their dropped lox and cream cheese bagel up off the impeccable sidewalks and finish them. It didn't feel like the same city at all.

Katya had said she lived next to the station. 34 Cornell St, says the text on my phone, but there's no way. There's just no way.

I stare up at a long, thin, spire of a building slotted between two 1950s office tower specials. Compared to the clunky, chipped concrete of the offices, the apartment tower was molten black, like I'd fall in if I dared to brush a finger across the surface. 34 Cornell St, said a small silver sign.

I pause too long, and the racing traffic of the sidewalk pushes me into the glass doors, which slideopen to absorb me with a cool hiss.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," cries a voice that fades away as the speaker carries on down theside walk. The last word is snatched from the air as the doors snap shut.

It's a good thing Katya told me to dress to the nines. I'd look out of place wearing anything else I owned except the slim, sultry black dress I kept hidden from my mom for precisely these occasions. They didn't know how to party in Illinois, is what Katya had said when she saw it, this was a dress only New York could appreciate.

She had rifled through all of my clothes last week, after helping me move in to my all-girls Christian dorm nestled on campus. The RAs were all blonde, bubbly, and engaged, and they had eyed Katya like she was a stray cat slinking through the dorm's cramped halls. They'll only tell us it was refurbished in 1990, but I'd lay money it was built before my grandma was born. I hadn't seen Katya in almost 10 years, after she had moved away in the fifth grade, but when we found out over Facebook we both got into Columbia there she was on move-in day, scrounging through my wardrobe and pronouncing this dress the only acceptable thing to wear to the party she was inviting me to next Friday. Today.

Her apartment number was 1902. Jesus, did that mean she lived on the 19th floor? Only one way to find out.

I pushed the button on the intercom. It was so new it didn't make a single sound, until Katya's voice cut through the lobby silence like a knife.