than a year ago.

than a year ago. Was he the visitor before us? Hello, everyone," a man said from the door. He was holding two mugs, which steam was coming out of, and his hair was wet. "Oh, you're awake!" Georgia said, taking the mug that said "Georgia" on it. She gave him a big kiss, and I was like, What in the what the? "Here he is," she said. "Here who is?" Mr. Black asked. "My husband," she said, almost like he was another exhibit in his life. The four of us stood there smiling at one another, and then the man said, "Well, I suppose you'd like to see my museum now." I told him, "We just did. It was really great." He said, "No, Oskar, that's her museum. Mine's in the other room." Thank you for your letter. Because of the large olume of mail I receive, I am unable to write ersonal responses. Nevertheless, know that I ead and save every letter, with the hope of one ay being able to give each the proper response it eserves. Until that day, Most sincerely, Stephen Hawking The week passed quickly. Iris Black. Jeremy Black. Kyle Black. Lori Black ... Mark Black was crying when he opened the oor and saw us, because he had been waiting for someone to come back to him, so every time someone knocked on the oor, he couldn't stop himself from hoping it might be that person, even though he knew he shouldn't hope. ancy Black's roommate told us Nancy was at work at the coffee store on Nineteenth Street, so we went there, and I xplained to her that coffee actually has more caffeine than espresso, even though a lot of people don't think so, because he water is in contact with the grounds for a much longer time with coffee. She told me she didn't know that. "If he says t, it's true," Mr. Black said, patting my head. I told her, "Also, did you know that if you yell for nine years, you'll produce nough sound energy to heat one cup of coffee?" She said, "I didn't." I said, "Which is why they should put a coffee store next to the Cyclone at Coney Island! Get it?" That made me crack up, but only me. She asked if we were going to order nything. I told her, "Iced coffee, please." She asked, "What size?" I said, "Vente, and could you please use coffee ice ubes so it doesn't get all watery when the ice cubes melt?" She told me they didn't have coffee ice cubes. I said, Exactly." Mr. Black said, "I'm going to get right to the point," and then he did. I went to the bathroom and gave myself a bruise. Ray Black was in prison, so we weren't able to talk to him. I did some research on the Internet and found out that he was in prison because he murdered two kids after he raped them. There were also pictures of the dead kids, and even though I knew it would only hurt me to look at them, I did. I printed them out and put them in Stuff That Happened to Me, right after the picture of Jean-Pierre Haignerè, the French astronaut who had to be carried from his spacecraft after returning from the Mir space station, because gravity isn't only what makes us fall, it's what makes our muscles strong. I wrote a etter to Ray Black in prison, but I never got a response. Inside, I hoped he didn't have anything to do with the key, lthough I couldn't help inventing that it was for his jail cell. he address for Ruth Black was on the eighty-sixth floor of the Empire State Building, which I thought was incredibly weird, and so did Mr. Black, because neither of us knew that people actually lived there. I told Mr. Black that I was anicky, and he said it was OK to be panicky. I told him I felt like I couldn't do it, and he said it was OK to feel like I couldn't do it. I told him it was the thing that I was most afraid of. He said he could understand why. I wanted him to disagree with me, but he wouldn't, so I had no way to argue. I told him I would wait for him in the lobby, and he said, "Fine." "OK, OK," I said, "I'll go." As the elevator takes you up, you hear information about the building, which was pretty fascinating, and I normally would have taken some notes, but I needed all of my concentration for being brave. I squeezed Mr. Black's hand, and I couldn't stop inventing: the elevator cables snapping, the elevator falling, a trampoline at the bottom, us shooting back up, the roof opening like a cereal box, us flying toward parts of the universe that not even Stephen Hawking was sure about... When the elevator door opened, we got out on the observation deck. We didn't know who to look for, so we just looked around for a while. Even though I knew the view was incredibly beautiful, my brain started misbehaving, and the whole time I was imagining a plane coming at the building, just below us. I didn't want to, but I couldn't stop. I imagined the last second, when I would see the pilot's face, who would be a terrorist. I imagined us looking each other in the eyes when the nose of the plane was one millimeter from the building. I hate you, my eyes would tell him. I hate you, his eyes would tell me. Then there would be an enormous explosion, and the building would sway, almost like it was going to fall over, which I know is what it felt like from descriptions I've read on the Internet, although I wish I hadn't read them. Then there would be smoke coming up at me and people screaming all around me. I read one description of someone who made it down eighty-five flights of stairs, which must have been about two thousand stairs, and he said that people were screaming "Help!" and "I don't want to die!" and one man who owned a company was screaming "Mommy!" It would be getting so hot that my skin would start to get blisters. It would feel so good to get away from the heat, but on the other hand, when I hit the sidewalk I would die, obviously. Which would I choose? Would I jump or would I burn? I guess I would jump, because then I wouldn't have to feel pain. On the other hand, maybe I would burn, because then I'd t least have a chance to somehow escape, and even if I couldn't, feeling pain is still better than not feeling, isn't it? remembered my cell phone. still had a few seconds. ho should I call? hat should I say? thought about all of the things that everyone ever says to each other, and how everyone is going to die, whether it's in a illisecond, or days, or months, or 76.5 years, if you were just born. Everything that's born has to die, which means our lives are like skyscrapers. The smoke rises at different speeds, but they're all on fire, and we're all trapped. ou can see the most beautiful things from the observation deck of the Empire State Building. I read somewhere that eople on the street are supposed to look like ants, but that's not true. They look like little people. And the cars look like little cars. And even the buildings look little. It's like New York is a miniature replica of New York, which is nice, because ou can see what it's really like, instead of how it feels when you're in the middle of it. It's extremely lonely up there, and ou feel far away from everything. Also it's scary, because there are so many ways to die. But it feels safe, too, because ou're surrounded by so many people. I kept one hand touching the wall as I walked carefully around to each of the views. I saw all of the locks I'd tried to open, and the 161,999,831 that I hadn't yet. got down on my knees and crawled to one of the binocular machines. I held it tightly as I pulled myself up, and I took a uarter from the change dispenser on my belt. When the metal lids opened, I could see things that were far away ncredibly close, like the Woolworth Building, and Union Square, and the gigantic hole where the World Trade Center was. I looked into the window of an office building that I guessed was about ten blocks away. It took me a few seconds to figure out the focus, but then I could see a man sitting at his desk, writing something. What was he writing? He didn't look at all like Dad, but he reminded me of Dad. I pressed my face closer, and my nose got smooshed against the cold metal. He was left-handed like Dad. Did he have a gap between his front teeth like Dad? I wanted to know what he was thinking. Who did he miss? What was he sorry for? My lips touched the metal, like a kiss. I found Mr. Black, who was looking at Central Park. I told him I was ready to go down. "But what about Ruth?" "We can come back another day." "But we're already here." "I don't feel like it." "It'll just take a few--" "I want to go home." He ould probably tell that I was about to cry. "OK," he said, "let's go home." We got at the end of the line for the elevator. looked at everyone and wondered where they came from, and who they missed, and what they were sorry for.