The Neighbor Favor
Kristina Forest
For my literary work wife, Alison
PROLOGUE
Lily Greene always imagined that if she were to have the tragic misfortune of dying young, it would happen in a valiant, honorable way. Similar to the heroes in her beloved fantasy novels. Maybe she’d die while rescuing a child （or cat） from a burning building. Or darting into the street to save an elderly person from being hit by a speeding truck.
She didn’t imagine that at twenty-five years old her final moments would be spent drenched in sweat, dehydrated out of her mind, on a crowded New York City subway train without AC during rush hour on one of the hottest days of the year. Because this was an event that she might not survive.
Lily gripped the subway pole and tried her best to avoid touching the five other hands that were wrapped around the pole as well. With her free hand, she dug through her tote bag and pulled out her empty water canister, as if liquid would magically appear inside. Usually, she was smart about filling it before she left the office, but today, her boss, Edith, vice president and publisher of Edith Pearson Books at the esteemed Mitchell & Milton Inc., had been in a particularly terrible mood after mistakenly falling for an email phishing scam, which meant IT had taken hold of Edith’s computer and she couldn’t sit in her own office, which meant she’d stood over Lily’s shoulder in Lily’s tiny cubicle, repeatedly proclaiming that she was an “innocent victim” of a “malicious scammer.” All the while, Lily wondered if when someone emailed you, claiming to be the long-lost grandson of John F. Kennedy, and said person then claimed you could read a draft of their memoir for publishing consideration by clicking an unsecure, highly suspicious link, could you really blame anyone but yourself for clicking said link and therefore unleashing a virus onto your computer?
Either way, for the rest of the afternoon, Lily suffered through Edith’s complaining and micromanaging. She survived by drinking one too many cups of coffee, zero cups of water, and inhaling half a sleeve of crackers at her desk once Edith stepped away for lunch. Now Lily was hungry, dehydrated and very close to melting into a puddle right there on the downtown B train, which suddenly came to a halt. The conductor made a garbled announcement no one could understand, and a chorus of groans rang throughout the train. A man who’d already taken the liberty of removing his shirt banged on the subway doors as if the conductor could hear him. “Jesus fucking Christ, fix the AC! We’re dying in here!”
A few others began to shout and complain, growing angrier as the train remained motionless. Lily grimaced. Nothing good ever happened when a bunch of people were pissed, hot and immobile. At least they’d stopped on the Manhattan Bridge, so she had cell service.
“What the fuck?” someone yelled. “Why is it so hot?”
“Global warming,” a woman standing beside Lily grumbled. She was short and blonde, with flushed cheeks and a sweaty forehead. Lily could only imagine how she looked herself. It was only May, but this spring season was already giving unbearably hot summer vibes. Lily glanced down at her sleeveless white button-up, which now had sweat stains under her armpits. Her brown skin was dewy, but not in the cute-makeup-influencer way, and the flyaway curls that had escaped her bun were sticking to the back of her neck. Gross. She felt so horribly gross.
And nauseous? Her balance began to slip, and she clutched the pole tighter, attempting to keep the nausea and light-headedness at bay. She’d fainted a few times as a kid when heat and stress created a menacing combination, and she couldn’t afford to faint today. Not when she had to rush home and feed her cat and be back in Manhattan in a matter of hours because she was meeting her older sisters, Violet and Iris, for dinner in the Meatpacking District. Violet, ever the celebrity stylist social butterfly, recently heard about a new French fusion restaurant they just had to try. Lily hated going to trendy spots in the city because she always felt hilariously underdressed, but Iris, a worker bee, was actually pulling herself away from the office to join them, so Lily had no excuse to miss it.
Just then, Lily’s phone vibrated in her bag. It was Violet calling. Lily answered, keeping her voice low. She didn’t want to be one of those people who broadcasted her entire conversation to everyone on the train.
“Lily,” Violet said, her voice its usual mix of pep and confidence. “There’s been a change of plans.”
“What do you mean?”
“Iris can’t come. She has a work thing. Big surprise. Can you—hold on.” Lily listened as Violet pulled the phone away from her ear and murmured to someone in her background. Violet might have been at a photo shoot or on the set of a music video with one of her clients. Her life moved at lightning speed and Lily could never keep up. “Hey, I’m back. Sorry. No one ever listens to me during these things. I put her in a pair of bright pink satin Versace platform pumps and what does the photographer say? ‘Put her in black.’ She looks best in bright colors! Why is that so hard for everyone to understand?”