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Sept. 11, 9:45 a.m.
B Train – 7th Avenue to 42nd Street
“This seems like a nice place. Where are we?” he asks.
“We’re right by the park. Over here is Flatbush and it’s completely different,” she responds, pointing on a credit card sized map.
She’s in a black knee length dress. He has a tiny head peaking beneath a plush winter jacket, vaguely resembling that alien from Men in Black with the tiny head.
He speaks clean English with a Russian accent: “I’m just thinking about where I’m going to get breakfast.”
“Oh I should have fed you more. You did say yogurt and eggs.”