The applause still rang out behind you, muffled through the walls, Joan’s voice twining with Bob’s like they had never stopped. The song had always cut too close, but tonight it undid you. Their harmonies weren’t just music — they were a reminder.

You pushed through the crowd, the swell of fans pressing in from every direction, their hands grabbing for more of him while you slipped away. Neuwirth caught up before you could reach the line of taxis.

“Stay and talk to him,” he pleaded.

But you couldn’t. Bob belonged to the stage, to the songs that ate at him until there was nothing left for anyone else. Not even you.

By the time the ferry horn sounded at Providence, you thought you’d made peace with it. Ticket punched. Steps echoing against the dock. And then — the low growl of a Triumph engine.

You turned. He was there. Bob Dylan in his polka-dot shirt, Ray-Bans hiding everything but the urgency in the way he moved. He killed the engine, swung a leg over, and crossed to the fence.

At the fence, he struck a match with his thumb, lit two cigarettes, passed one through the bars.

“You shouldn’t,” you teased, flicking the smoke away after a drag. “Surgeon General says it’ll kill you.”

“Next week,” he said, easy, mouth twitching like it was all a joke.

The ferry whistle cut the air. He shifted, toe scuffing against the dirt. Then, too casually: “Don’t go. Just… stay. I’ll figure it out.”

Your laugh came out softer than you meant. “Figure what out, Bobby?”

He rocked back on his heels, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. You reached through the fence, brushing his hand — a fleeting touch against the man who belonged more to the world than to you.

His jaw tightened, the bravado faltering for a second. “I dunno. Somethin’. Us.” He dragged on the cigarette, eyes darting to the mob gathering down the street. “Just stay tonight, huh?”

The plea hung there, but it didn’t reach as far as you needed it to. Not really. Not when the stage, the songs, the world would always claim him first.

You reached through the bars, brushing your fingers over his, a fleeting connection. “You don’t want me to stay,” you said, not unkind. “You just don’t want me to leave.”

You reached through the bars once more, fingertips brushing his wrist. This time, he caught your hand, held it firm like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go.

The ferry horn howled again, but you didn’t move. Neither of you did.