 I walked the avenue of the Americas, past the photocopy gallery of the missing and the dead, mounted on buildings and store windows and lobbies, and posted on police barricades along the streets. And I searched for familiar faces and I found a few, but the names were wrong, yet I knew them all by their fictions. The light-hearted Capricorn from Seven Hills playing with her cat on a crate and barrel sofa. The Hindu newlyweds who immigrated from India to be in the Empire State.