Holden Caulfield had his red hunting hat pulled down over his ears, even though it wasn’t that cold. He liked wearing it that way when he felt lousy. It made him feel separate from everybody else, like he wasn’t part of the big phony parade marching up and down Manhattan.

He’d left Pencey Prep only a couple days ago, after that whole mess with Stradlater and Jane Gallagher and all that junk. He didn’t want to think about it. Or about Ackley breathing down his neck. Or about how he’d flunked out of yet another school. So instead he just walked. That’s what he did now—walked and wandered and pretended he had someplace important to be.

He passed Radio City, then drifted over toward Fifth Avenue. The city looked nice at night, if you didn’t think too hard about it. Everything glowing. Everything pretending to be happy.

That’s when he saw her.

She stood near a newsstand, half-hidden in shadow, studying a rack of postcards like she was trying to decide whether she belonged in any of the pictures. She wore a long coat, tailored and elegant, but not flashy. Her dark hair caught the streetlight, soft and glossy, and her face had this quiet kind of beauty that didn’t demand attention—just naturally drew it.

Holden slowed down.

He didn’t mean to stare, but he did anyway. Something about her made him stop walking, which practically never happened. She looked alone, but not helpless. Like she’d chosen to be standing there.

Then she glanced up.

Their eyes met.

Holden felt it right in his chest, sharp and sudden. He stopped a few feet away.

“Don’t buy that one,” Holden said suddenly. “Those postcards are all lies. New York never looks like that.”