Free Dissonance by Shira Anthony

hair flying about his face, the bottoms of his jeans held against his ankles with rubber bands or silver tape.
    Another train stopped at the station. He moved to the end of the platform where reception was the best and turned on his mobile. He glanced at the screen, cursed under his breath, then shut it off to conserve the dwindling battery. Why the hell hadn’t Dan called him back yet? He could hide here for a day, maybe two, but he needed money. He figured he had about seventy-five cents in his pockets. Maybe a dollar. What the hell could that buy in New York City?
    He shivered as the train pulled away and the temperature dropped a few degrees. Maybe there was a reason the homeless people slept in the passages that zigzagged under 42nd Street. It’s safer here. He lay down on the bench and tried to ignore the wood that separated the bench into individual seats. No doubt meant to keep people like me from sleeping on the goddamned benches.
    He pulled his cashmere scarf out from around his neck and draped it over his head, then scooted up a few inches so one of the wooden separators sat at his waist. Another one cut into his shoulder. He bunched the jacket up and tried to cushion the spot with limited success. His heart pounded. He couldn’t sleep like this. What if they found him?
    Fuck this. They won’t find you here. This wasn’t a manhunt. He’d found a discarded newspaper on one of the benches. Nothing about him. Nothing about the investigation. He’d be safe here. Still, he felt anxious enough that he decided to sit up again. He’d sleep upright. Or maybe he wouldn’t sleep at all. At the sound of a train in the distance, his gaze strayed to the tracks. That was when he noticed the trumpet player watching him from a few feet away.
    “What are you staring at?” Cam demanded, getting to his feet and backing up toward the wall. And then what? If he’s FBI, are you going to frighten him away with your blinding personality? He took a deep breath. This man wasn’t FBI. Cam had seen him before the entire mess of a situation, before the FBI had even been a blip on his radar. The man was irritating but harmless.
    “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you. You’re British, right?”
    Cam waited for more, but the man just kept looking at him. Fucking brilliant. He’d heard of savants who could play but couldn’t manage to feed themselves. “And?” he replied at last, after the man said nothing more.
    “Unusual.”
    “Last I heard there were 63 million of us. Not so unusual.” Cam closed his eyes. Maybe he’d go away and leave Cam in peace.
    “I think you made a mistake,” the man said.
    Cam opened his eyes again, about to tell the twit to get stuffed, but he stopped. The trumpet player had moved closer to him and was holding something out in his left hand. A bill. A hundred-dollar bill, judging by Ben Franklin’s cheery face peering back at him. The hundred-dollar bill Cam had dropped into the trumpet case the week before? He’d kept it? Cam could eat for a week on a hundred dollars, if he was careful.
    “No mistake,” Cam said. Well, it hadn’t been, had it? And if he took the bill, he’d be admitting to this stranger that he was skint.
    The man shrugged, then pocketed the bill. “Name’s Galen. Galen Rusk.”
    “Hmm.”
    Galen didn’t respond, clearly waiting for Cam’s response.
    Fine. “Cam,” he said.
    “Good to meet you, Cam.” Galen offered Cam his hand. Cam hesitated, then shook it. A firm handshake. Confident and warm. In another reality, he’d have wanted to keep holding that hand. Take away the grunge clothing, and Galen would have been someone Cam might have noticed. Cam released Galen’s hand.
    “It’s not as cold upstairs,” Galen said after nearly a minute passed in silence.
    “I’m waiting for someone.”
    If Galen knew it for the lie it was, he didn’t let on, and for that, Cam was thankful. “Sure. No problem.” Galen paused, then added, “Maybe I’ll see you around,