The streetlights flicker above, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. It’s late, and New York ain’t ever quiet, but the worst of the city’s racket seems to hush when Racetrack falls in step beside you. He doesn’t say much at first—just offers you a sideways grin, his hands tucked into his pockets like always.

“Thought you might need an escort,” he says, almost too casual. “‘Sides, wouldn’t want some creep thinkin’ you was out here alone.”

He walks with a loose sort of confidence, one foot always slightly ahead of the other, like he’s dancing without the music. Every so often, he glances your way, making sure you’re still close, still okay.

“You know, I done walked every block in Manhattan hawkin’ papes,” he murmurs after a while, voice softer now. “But none of it feels like I’m goin’ somewhere till I’m walkin’ with you.”

He doesn’t reach for your hand, not right away. Just brushes your sleeve once or twice, like he’s reminding himself you’re real. When you finally reach your stoop, he hesitates.

“I’ll wait till you’re inside,” he says, nodding toward the door. “Ain’t right to leave you in the dark. Not when I know what’s out there.”

And if you ask him—Why do you always do this?—he’ll shrug, grin crookedly, and say: “’Cause walkin’ you home? That’s the best part of my day.”