Monday morning.
Hawk had requested leave the previous Friday, so he rose early but didn't head straight to Calvin Cemetery in Glendale. Instead, he shouldered a golf bag—stuffed not with clubs but the five Chitauri weapons he intended to sell—and stopped by a little taco shop near an orphanage.
The Mexican owner recognized him and blinked in surprise.
"Hawk… oh, it's the tenth, isn't it?"
Hawk only nodded and handed over coins he'd already prepared.
A few minutes later, two freshly wrapped burritos were ready. Hawk thanked the man and left.
About an hour later, after circling the nearby streets, he hailed a cab, clutching not only his golf bag but also a dozen extra takeout bags. Destination: Calvin Cemetery.
Founded in 1849, spanning Brooklyn and Queens, Calvin Cemetery was old—too old. By rights, it should have been full decades ago. And it was.
Until 1984, when it was sold off by the city.
Privatized, "renovated," and suddenly spacious again. No one asked too many questions about how so many plots had opened up in just three months. No one protested either.
Now the cemetery even offered feng shui sections for Chinese immigrants and handled government burial programs.
By the time Hawk arrived, it was nine in the morning.
The gate guard glanced at his papers, eyed the golf bag suspiciously, but waved him through.
Hawk walked fifteen minutes along familiar paths until he reached a modest grave.
A girl's sweet smile beamed from the photo on the headstone.
Anya
1995.5.20 – 2009.9.10
Hawk set the golf bag down beside him and carefully placed the food offerings in front of the stone.
Then he just crouched there, staring.
A faint smile tugged at his lips—the same one he wore every morning when his eyes fell on the photo framed by his bedside.
After a while, he pulled out his phone—switched off so no one would disturb him—and laid it aside. Then he leaned back against the stone, eyes drifting toward the distant skyline.
From afar, his profile and Anya's photo almost seemed to sit side by side, both gazing at the same view.
…
At Midtown High—
"Gwen, do you know where Hawk went?"
"Uh…" Gwen froze, halfway to stowing her backpack when her counselor, Mrs. Snow, called.
"He asked you for leave, didn't he?"
"Yes, but I just got a call from NYU—they're coming today."
"For Hawk?"
"For Hawk. But I can't reach him. God, when he didn't have a phone, fine, but now he does and it's turned off! Worse than nothing."
Gwen hesitated. She had a good guess where Hawk was. But should she say?
"NYU will finalize their list today. If Hawk doesn't show, he could lose his shot."
"…Alright. I'll go find him. I may need a pass."
"Of course."
Hanging up, Mrs. Snow chuckled to herself.
As expected. Gwen again.
Meanwhile Gwen slid her books back into her locker, grabbed her bag, and hurried to the lot. Her yellow Corolla roared to life, heading straight for Calvin Cemetery.
At the gate, she explained herself and was waved in. She knew the way.
Rounding a bend, she saw him: Hawk, sitting with one leg bent, the other stretched, left hand resting on his knee, back against a headstone.
Anya's headstone.
His gaze, distant and empty, snapped back into focus as her footsteps approached. He turned. She saw his faint smile and finally exhaled in relief, walking closer.
She didn't ask about NYU, not yet. Her eyes lingered on the girl's photo, then on Hawk himself. Her voice was soft.
"Will you… introduce her to me?"
Hawk's lips curved gently. His eyes warmed as he looked at the picture.
"Anya."
"My…"
"My sister."
…
(End of Chapter)
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