You look tired, Marcus.

The voice came from the high ceiling, from the shadows where the chandelier hung like a frozen explosion of crystal and glass. I did not turn around. I kept my back to the throne, my hands clasped behind my, I kept my hands clasped behind my back, fingers digging into the skin of my palms. The carpet was thick, red and gold, swallowing the sound of my breathing.

I know you are.

I nodded. The motion felt heavy, as if my neck were made of lead. The room was vast, a cavern of power and stone. It was the office of the Mayor of New York City, or so the brochures claimed, but it felt more like the throne room of a king who had forgotten how to speak. There were no windows. Only mirrors. Mirrors on every wall, reflecting the long table, the leather chairs, the single figure at the top.

We have a decision to make, Marcus.

I turned then. Slowly. I looked at the man at the head of the table. He was small, unremarkable, wearing a suit that cost more than my yearly salary. His eyes were bright, wet, feverish. He was smiling. It was not a kind smile.

What decision? I asked. My voice sounded thin in the large room.

The matter of the bridge.

I knew what he meant. The bridge over the East River. It was failing. The steel was rusting, the cables were fraying. It was a disaster waiting to happen. We had known this for months. The reports were on my desk, thick with data and warnings. But the city was moving. The city was growing. The bridge was in the way.

It is an old structure, the Mayor said. It serves no purpose.

It carries the 7 train, I said. It carries thousands of people every day.

They can take the other bridge, the Mayor said. The traffic will be manageable.

The other bridge is full, I said. It will take years to build a new one.

Then we wait, the Mayor said. We wait until it falls.

I stared at him. The air in the room was stale, recycled, smelling of old paper and fear. I thought of my sister, Elena. She lived in Brooklyn. She worked the 7 train every morning. She sent me photos of her cat, a tabby named Barnaby, and pictures of the skyline from her window. I kept those photos in my wallet, against my chest, close to my heart. I thought of her face, bright and fierce, laughing at something I could not remember.

I will not sign the order, I said.

The Mayor’s smile faded. He leaned forward.

You are a clerk, Marcus. You do things. You sign things. You do not make choices.

I am a citizen, I said.

A citizen of what? the Mayor asked. Of this? He gestured at the room. At the mirrors. At the darkness beyond the glass.

Of the city, I said.

The city is a machine, the Mayor said. And you are a gear. And gears do not choose. They turn. Or they break.

I looked at my hands. They were shaking. I pressed them together until the knuckles turned white. I thought of the weight of the bridge. The weight of the steel. The weight of the people. I thought of how light I felt, how hollow. I had spent my whole life trying to be solid. Trying to be something that mattered. And now I was nothing. A gear. A shadow in the mirror.

What do you want from me? I asked.

I want you to be a good man, the Mayor said.

I stood up. My legs were stiff. I walked to the window, if it could be called that. It was a pane of glass, thick and dark. Beyond it, there was nothing. No sky. No street. Just the dark, pressing in.

I looked at my reflection. I saw my face, pale and drawn. I saw my eyes, wide and empty. I did not see a hero. I did not see a villain. I saw a man who was afraid.

I will go, I said.

Go where? the Mayor asked.

Away, I said.

The Mayor laughed. It was a dry, rattling sound.

You cannot go away from this, Marcus. You are part of it.

I turned back to him.

No, I said. I am not.

I walked out of the room. The doors closed behind me with a soft click. I was in a hallway, long and narrow, lined with portraits of dead men. They watched me with painted eyes. I kept walking. I did not look back.

I found the elevator. I pressed the button. The doors opened. I stepped in. I pressed the button for the lobby.

The elevator rose. It was silent. I watched my face in the metal doors. It changed. It aged. It softened. I looked like my father. I looked like a man who had seen too much.

When the doors opened, the lobby was bright. The sunlight was harsh, white, blinding. I walked out into the street.

The city was loud. It was a roar, a hum, a buzz. Cars honked. People shouted. The air smelled of exhaust and garbage and life. I walked. I walked until my feet hurt. I walked until I reached the river.

I stood on the pier. The water was dark, churning. I looked at the bridge. It was there, standing in the fog. It was solid. It was real. It was not a machine. It was a promise.

I thought of Elena. I thought of Barnaby. I thought of the photos in my wallet. I took them out. I held them up to the light. Her face was smiling. I touched the photo, gently, with my fingertip.

I did not go back to the office. I did not go home. I walked to a diner. I sat in a booth. I ordered coffee. It was hot, bitter, good.

I sat there for a long time. I watched the people come and go. They were all different. They were all the same. They were all gears. They were all shadows.

I thought about the Mayor. I thought about the power. I thought about the choice. I had made it. I had chosen to leave. I had chosen to be small. I had chosen to be human.

It was not enough. It was not heroic. It was not grand. It was just a man, sitting in a diner, drinking coffee.

But it was mine.

I finished the coffee. I paid. I walked out.

The sun was setting. The sky was purple and gold. The city was alive. I walked into it. I walked into the dark. I walked into the noise. I walked into the life.

I did not look back.