It was real. Or it had been.

Ling put aside her science books and combed through old newspapers, reading about a place she thought she and Henry had invented, a place that existed only in dreams.

ASTONISHING ACCOMPLISHMENT!

MR. A. E. BEACH AT LAST UNVEILS

PNEUMATIC UNDERGROUND RAILWAY

WITH OPULENT RECEPTION!

Pledges to Extend Line to Central Park

A marvel of modern transport was unveiled this morning deep below the hustle and bustle of New York’s crowded city streets. The Beach Pneumatic Transit Company, constructed by teams of men working day and night and with great secrecy until recently, was introduced to a curious public by its inventor and architect, Mr. Alfred Ely Beach, editor of Scientific American.

For a year, the corner of Warren Street and Broadway, occupied by Devlin’s Clothing Store at Number 260 Broadway, has been the subject of much speculation. Passersby have remarked on the shaking ground, the tunneling equipment, and the piles of dirt left behind the store each night. As of today, the entire thrilling enterprise is speculation no more.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Today we unveil the future of travel beneath these very streets—the Beach Pneumatic Transit Company. See this wonder for yourselves and be amazed,” Mr. Beach crowed to a handsomely furnished waiting room filled with reporters, dignitaries, and city politicians eager for a ride on his underground marvel, which runs the length of Broadway, originating at Warren Street beneath Devlin’s Clothing Store and terminating at Murray Street, traveling a distance of three hundred feet by means of forced air generated by a large fan, though Mr. Beach proposes to build longer tunnels.

Ling read the newspaper again: Beach Pneumatic Transit Company; Devlin’s Clothing Store; 260 Broadway; corner of Broadway and Warren. Accompanying the article was an artist’s illustration of the station as it had looked on opening day: the elevated waiting area, the chandeliers and fountain, and even the piano. It was clearly the same station from their dream walks. Furiously, she read through the other clippings until she came upon a second article:

BEACH’S PNEUMATIC DREAM

RUNS OUT OF AIR

City to Close First Underground Station Today

Ling quickly read the article through. Mr. Beach had a hard go of making his experimental dream come true. And just as it looked hopeful, an economic panic gripped New York and the rest of the country in 1873. There was no money to advance an idea of an underground train system. Mr. Beach’s subway prototype was closed for good in 1873, becoming a shooting gallery for a while. In 1875, its beautiful fixtures were sealed behind rock.

Future articles only briefly mentioned the Beach Pneumatic Transit Company. The city moved on. Devlin’s Clothing Store became Rogers, Peet & Co., which burned to the ground. Another building went up in its place. In 1904, the first subway station, City Hall, opened near the site of the old pneumatic train. Tunnels were dug. New subways were built, though Mr. Beach would never live to see them. His pneumatic transit dream was long gone, nothing but an obscure footnote in New York City history.

So why was it showing up in Ling’s and Henry’s dreams now?

A commotion up front drew Ling’s attention. Police officers had arrived and were asking patrons to pack up and leave. Mrs. Belpre argued in hushed tones with the health inspector, who pestered her for the names of everyone she knew who had visited the library in the past two weeks. “To investigate further,” he said. “After all, it’s a matter of public health.”

Mrs. Belpre remained firm. “No. It’s a matter of privacy.”

“What’s the matter?” Ling whispered to a mother gathering her children.

“They’re closing the library because of the sleeping sickness,” the mother answered in Cantonese. “They’re afraid the library might be contaminated. They’re calling it a public health emergency. Just this morning, they closed the elementary school and boarded up the temple and the public bath.”

A police officer came to Ling’s table. “Everyone has to leave, Miss,” he said and seemed apologetic. Ling stacked the articles and books neatly on the table and made her way to the door.

On her way out of the library, Ling passed a man poised on the front steps with a bucket of glue and a brush. He pasted a bill to the library’s front doors: CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE BY ORDER OF NEW YORK CITY DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH.

As Ling waited for the bus back to Chinatown, her mind raced. The Beach Pneumatic Transit Company had existed. It had been built underneath Devlin’s Clothing Store. And every night, Ling and Henry saw both in their dream walks. The bus arrived but Ling didn’t get on it. Instead, she boarded the Broadway trolley, stepping off at City Hall Park.