I needed to get away from the gala before the officers began searching the perimeter.

I walked three blocks in the pouring rain, my head down, my hood pulled over my face.

The city around me was a blur of yellow taxi headlights and gray concrete.

I reached the subway station on the corner of 42nd Street and hurried down the stairs.

The air inside the station was warm and smelled of wet wool and electricity.

I swiped my metro card with a trembling hand and pushed through the turnstile.

A train was already idling at the platform, its doors open.

I stepped inside the half-empty car and took a seat near the center doors.

I kept my bag clutched tightly in my lap, both hands resting on the zipper.

Across from me, an elderly man in a gray coat looked up, then looked away.

My reflection in the dark window opposite me looked pale and exhausted.

My wet hair hung in limp strands around my face.

I looked like just another tired commuter going home after a long shift.

That was my greatest asset.