Nick steps back inside the car. “That’s it,” he says. “We’ve got to figure out another plan to get home. Jessie’s not going anywhere.” He pulls his wallet out. “And of course I have no money left. But I do have a MetroCard! I’m so sorry, Norah.”

I’m not sorry, because his words have made me think of my favorite Le Tigre song. I mumble, “My! My MetroCard!” and Nick picks up the song by answering with a call of, “OH FUCK / Giuliani,” and we both finish with, “HE’S SUCH / A f**king jerk!”

“Let’s just leave Jessie here for today. I’ll figure out what to do with her after some sleep. If we hop the A train to Port Authority, I know a guy there who drives the early morning van service to Hoboken. He’s in Pretty Girls Named Jen, the hardcore screamo band from Jersey City—do you know them? Anyway, I know he’ll give us a free ride, and once we get back to Hoboken I can take my sister’s car and drive you home. So all we have to do is get to the A train. Though I’m not sure I have the energy to walk all the way to the A train. You?”

At this point, we’ve completely forfeited a night’s sleep so we might as well wake the hell up and enjoy this brand-new day. I respond with a single word: “BEASTIE!” I hit play on the CD player, and like that, Nick and I are singing along together, wailing out “I like to party, not drink Bacardi” and just all-out grooving to “Triple Trouble,” because we’ve got the Beastie funk and it’s damn pleasant and getting louder and louder as we rock Jessie. Nick is head thrashing and I am head thrashing and together we are Johnny Castle meets Johnny Rotten via DJ Norah caffeine jolt. And we are awake, and alive.

We make the long walk to Canal Street—make that, we almost sprint there—and we’re holding hands and laughing and kissing and sing-shouting, “Mommy’s just jealous it’s the BEASTIE BOYS,” and like that we’re there and we’re skipping down the steps into the station. Some spray-painted graffiti on the wall asks, Is it nothing to you, all you who pass by? Lamentations 1:12 and I think, No, Lord, whoever the hell You are, this is not nothing to me. This counts. Like, I could see myself being one of those tourists in Chinatown and I could buy a shirt that says, “I Survived the All-Nighter” or “Nick & Norah Went to the Marriott Marquis and All I Got Was This Lousy Shirt,” as if the experience never happened without the T-shirt to prove it.

Nick slides the MetroCard through the turnstile and we hear a train approaching and it’s early Sunday morning so I better hurry because who knows how long it will be before another train comes through. He passes the card to me but when I try to slide it through, the machine reads Insufficient Fare, because Nick must have just used the last value of the card.

“Fuck!” I say.

“Fuck!” he says.

Nick puts his hand on mine from the other side of the turnstile. He says, “Don’t worry about it, just jump over.”

I hesitate even though I know my wavering could cost us the approaching train. If I make this jump, then this is real, he is real. I will have broken the law for him and that will bind us together forever, outlaws, like Bonnie and Clyde. And look how that worked out for them.

“C’mon, Norah,” Nick says. I hear his urgency, and once again, I think, Oh, poor Nick. I mean, I think I am basically a cool girl, but I am also a pain in the ass. I know this. It’s like he has no idea what he’s setting himself up for. I should just call the car service for myself and let Nick go.

“Norah?”

If I do this, it will be like jumping into the middle of the mosh pit. Dangerous. Exhilarating. Terrifying. It’s only a f**king turnstile, but what if I don’t make it to the other side. Some people never make it out of the mosh alive.

The deafening screech of train brakes announces the train is in the station.

Nick says, “Are we in this or not?”

To throw myself into the breach of our great divide will be a leap of faith.

I grab hold of his warm hand. Deep breath.

Ready.

Set.

Jump.