The Viking carried the guitar through the darkness of the subway tunnel. He stopped to listen in a shadow between the dim red-orange LEDs that illuminated the length of the narrow maintenance path.

He brought the bottle to his lips and let the wine unfurl its ribbon over his tongue and through his teeth. He closed his eyes and could smell and taste the sweet oats they used to keep in a bag on the tack shed floor for the horse, the plum fruit of her nape, the crisp pine needle crushed between finger and thumb and inhaled up a nostril, and a dark chocolate finish.

These shops sold street-food favorites such as banh mi, siu mai, tteokbokki, and steaming noodles of a dozen different ethnicities. There were the milk tea shops, coffee shops, slushy stores, and the aptly named Buffalo Chip Pizza that never, never rested. Operated by a dangerous-looking man with a handlebar mustache, pompadour, and white shirt, who was always either drinking his coffee, smoking a cigarette, or spinning a pizza dough into a level plane above his head.