You Look Different in Real Life

one.” He points to Rory.
    The lights inside the tunnel are evenly spaced andendless, like a line of chorus girls in one of those old movie musicals. I’m still not completely awake or thinking straight, but I reach for the camera and start shooting. Reflections of headlights and taillights on the walls, the intimidating rigidity of the double white line between the two narrow lanes. Nate grips the steering wheel with extra firmness and looks straight ahead, driving much slower than necessary. The rest of us are quiet until Felix asks:
    “You know what would be awesome? If we came out of this tunnel and on the other side it was suddenly 1956.”
    I see Nate crack a smile through his concentration.
    Then the tunnel opens up into daylight, and reality. Unfortunately, not 1956. But it is NYC, and that still feels like a miracle.
    “Stay to the left,” says Rory, examining the map application on Nate’s phone.
    A few blocks later, Rory has us turn again on Forty-Second Street. Now there are other things to shoot. People. Buildings. Storefronts. The guy with the Mohawk riding in a truck alongside us. I pan over to Felix, then Rory, then Nate.
    Already, we have traveled so far.
    This morning, I woke up in a house in the woods on a mountain. I climbed the face of a rock with my bare hands. Somehow it is still the same day but now we are here, in the city, the four of us together in a car. The journey from there to here seems like it must be a lotmore amazing than it felt like. Maybe the camera can see it even if I can’t.
    “Turn right here, on Tenth Avenue,” Rory directs Nate.
    “Don’t you love the city?” I ask, the camera recording.
    “Like crazy,” says Felix, and in his eyes I can see the reflection of all his plans for the future.
    “It’s got a great soundtrack,” says Nate, and at first I think he’s misheard me, maybe he thinks I’m talking about a movie. But then I get it. The city has a soundtrack. It’s different for everyone, but it beats through every second you spend here.
    I turn the camera on Rory, waiting for her to say something. She doesn’t notice me shooting her, but after a few moments, she whispers, “Actually, I hate it. Too many painful noises and so much happens . . . suddenly.”
    I think of the time we were eight years old and our moms brought us into the city to see the Radio City Christmas Spectacular. We were walking down a midtown street toward the theater, jumping sidewalk cracks in our new holiday dresses. Mine was purple velvet with white fake-fur trim; Rory’s was the same, but in green. She was in front of me when we were approached by a homeless guy holding out a plastic yogurt cup full of change. He didn’t even say anything; he just stepped in front of us and shook the cup in our faces so it jingled and clanged.
    Rory screamed and covered her ears. Collapsed in agreen velvet pile on the nearest stoop and wouldn’t move. Her mother had to carry her the remaining blocks to the theater, and she spent half the show in the gigantic ladies’ room, too fascinated by all the mirrors to leave.
    “Look! It’s me, to infinity!” she said when I came down to find her after the performance. Her mother sat on a sofa in the corner, reading a book. She never left the house without one for just this type of occasion. In two mirrors on opposite walls, there was Rory stretching on forever. I didn’t want all those Rorys. I just wanted one, who would sit next to me during the Radio City Christmas Spectacular so we could pick out which Rockettes we liked best.
    “You can stay in the car if you want,” I say now. “If it’s easier.”
    Rory turns her head halfway but her eyes are on the ceiling. “I know that.”
    Maybe I should just not say anything to her ever again.
    We drive a few more blocks, then Rory tells Nate to turn left on Forty-Seventh Street.
    “It must be on this block,” says Nate, looking at the numbers. The neighborhood feels mishmashy. A large auto repair shop, an empty lot between two brick buildings, a contemporary high-rise.
    “But we know she doesn’t live here anymore,” I remind Nate.
    “Keira must have talked to someone who gave her a new address. We’ll talk to the same person.”
    We find the building, a blocky thing built around a small courtyard, and Nate pulls to the curb next to a fire hydrant.
    “You can’t park here,” says Rory.
    “We can’t park anywhere,” says Nate, huffy, and I realize how nerve-racking the driving