The NYU kids are coming back. I saw them yesterday, tromping down 14th Street with “Class of 2018” T-shirts. I like to joke every year that the freshmen look like children, actual children. Such babies! And they do, sometimes. But mostly they just look like people, albeit people with bright faces and sloppy gaits, as yet unburdened, un-muted and tightened in the way that too much time spent in Manhattan can do to you. The Class of 2018. It’s such a silly, enormous number that it doesn’t mean anything. The Class of 2014 was much, much scarier. 2018 is an imaginary number, one only the math geniuses, lugging their boxes into their new homes while their parents nervously inspect every vagrant dotting the block, can understand. I wish them luck! But me, I’m moving toward the river.




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Don’t miss the thrilling novella that connects the last two novels in the New York Times best-selling Darkest Minds trilogy. Sam didn’t think things could get worse at Thurmond rehabilitation camp. Then the Reds arrive. Everyone assumed the kids with firepower had been…