A/N: Not my characters, obviously, but oh, how I wish they were! This story really starts earlier, in one called "The Missing Scene" but I couldn't continue that one without changing its title, since this is no longer just a missing scene. But you might want to read that one first. It's quick. If not, short version is that Rory thinks being trapped in NYC, city of dreams, land of opportunity, is more of a fresh start on a real life than disaster.

"You should have bought me a better engagement ring."

"Hey," Rory protested. His arm where it was resting on her shoulders tightened around her. "That was two month's salary. Not my fault that I was earning peanuts. Nurse's aides don't make much."

Amy held up her hand and looked at her ring. In the lightening sky of dawn, she could just barely see the sparkle of the tiny diamond. "We should have waited until you were through school."

"Part-time nurses aren't rolling in it, either. Do you mind?" His tone was worried, a little defensive, as if it really was the ring that mattered to her.

"Of course not, idiot." She elbowed him comfortably. "I love my ring. But we don't have any American money. If it was worth more, we could hock it."

"Oh, right."

She knew that he'd been thinking, too, trying to plan their next moves. They'd walked out of the park in the darkness, but it had been an easy, unspoken agreement that had them sitting on the nearest bench to wait for the light of day.

"It would have been a good idea to wear expensive jewelry," she said thoughtfully. "Just in case."

"Hindsight. 20/20." Rory shrugged in agreement.

Amy leaned her head into his shoulder. "It's not going to be easy. No money, no ID."

"We can try the British consulate," Rory suggested. "If we tell them we were mugged, our money and papers stolen—"

"Do people get mugged in the 1930's?" Amy asked dubiously, interrupting him. "And even if they do, won't the consulate ask lots of questions? They might want us to call home for help. That could be a bit awkward. Hi, Gran, you don't know me, I won't be born for another forty-five years or so, but would you mind wiring a bit of cash?"

Rory snorted. "Yeah, that's not real likely."

"None of my relations are likely to help a total stranger with a bonkers story about being lost in time. Besides, it's still the depression, isn't it? Even if they wanted to help, I doubt they could." Half Scotland had been on the dole during the depression and Amy's family had been no exception. Her grandparents still pinched every penny until it screamed.

"1938." Rory sounded thoughtful, before swearing abruptly. "Hell. We definitely can't go to the consulate. If it's autumn, it's right when Chamberlain's trying to butter up Hitler. Peace in our time and all that jazz."

"How do you know that?" Amy questioned. Neither she nor Rory had exactly been A-levels in history. She knew bits and pieces, but memorizing dates had never been her thing.

"Lived through it, remember?" His response was brief, his voice grim. "The consulate's likely to be paranoid, looking for spies around every corner. No, it's out."

"Even if they thought we were spies, they might send us back to London." Amy wasn't sure that she wanted to go back to England, but they should at least consider the option.

"We're not going to London," Rory said firmly. "I did the Blitz once. I'm not doing it again."

"Are you sure?" she asked. "If it's 1938, maybe we should make another try for Hitler. This time we might kill him instead of saving his life."

"He's well-guarded. And by the time we get enough money together to get to Germany, the war will probably have started." Rory shook his head. "Not a good idea."

Amy sighed. Her earlier euphoria at being with Rory was wearing off. They were lucky that the night had been temperate, but she was starting to get hungry. And she really needed to pee. She wondered if New York City in the 1930s had public loos. Looking for the nearest bush held no appeal, but if she had to, she should go now, before the sun got too much higher.

"We should find a library," Rory continued. "Brush up on our current events. Figure out the lay of the land."

A car drove by them, the third or fourth that they'd seen. The quiet corner of the city where they'd found themselves was starting to wake up. Across the street, a man unlocked the door of a run-down café.

"We need money, Rory. Food, a place to stay."

"Jobs," he offered. "We'll be able to find work here. Nursing can't have changed all that much. Well, of course, it probably has changed quite a bit. I'm sure the technology is different. But bedpans and baths, those have to be much the same. I might have to work as a nurse's aide for a while, get familiar with the procedures and maybe some of the terminology."

He kept talking but Amy had stopped listening. Her eyes had narrowed. The man across the street had turned on the lights inside the café. He was moving about, crossing from tables to counters, and then disappearing into the back, but she wasn't looking at him.

The glow of the light silhouetted the decorated window glass. The faded and peeling dark lettering was almost illegible, but a pattern painted on the lower half of the glass in gold was still distinct. A pattern of overlapping, intricate circles.

Amy clutched Rory's lower arm. "Do you see that?" Her words were breathless.

"See what?" he asked, looking about them, instantly worried. "Did you spot a weeping angel?"

"No, no," she assured him hurriedly. "That café." She gestured toward it with her chin.

"Across the street?" he asked dubiously. "The ivercon afe?" He read the name aloud.

Amy jumped to her feet. "That's not a C, silly."

"Well, no," he agreed, following suit more slowly. "The C has fallen off."

"No," she told him impatiently. "I mean, yes, the C has fallen off, but the letter in the middle of the name. It's not a C."

"Oh, you're right. It's backwards." He sounded puzzled.

Amy slipped her hand into his and started pulling him with her, hurrying to get across the street. Her heart was racing, the thrill of discovery sending adrenalin pouring through her system. "The letter is only partway gone."

"What?"

"That is the bottom half of a capital S," she said triumphantly as they reached the window.

"IverSon Café?" he asked, still not understanding.

Amy laughed with delight. Standing in front of the window, she reached up and traced the letters. "Look at it, Rory. Really look at it."

He stared at it blankly and shook his head, then looked back at her and shrugged helplessly. "What do you want me to see?"

"The broken S isn't the only missing letter," she told him, putting her hand on the glass and spreading her fingers wide. "There's a spot here at the beginning where a letter would fit and another at the end."

He frowned, looking puzzled, and then light began to dawn.

"It can't be a coincidence," he said.

"Not with the name in Gallifreyan right underneath," Amy agreed, touching the golden circles. "The River Song Café." She took a deep breath, suddenly almost afraid. Against all the odds, could River have found a way to rescue them?

"Come on." This time Rory was tugging Amy, dragging her suddenly heavy steps toward the door of the café.

"Rory, I—" she started. And then she stopped. What did she want to say? She wanted to be rescued, didn't she? Wanted to go back to their lives? Wanted to continue their travels with the doctor, their adventures in time and space? She did, didn't she?

"What?" He paused.

"Nothing." She shook her head, but he didn't move, still looking at her, his expression worried. She tried to smile. "Later. Let's see. . ." She let the words trail off.

He nodded, his face still serious. She could see that he wanted to ask her more, but he would wait for her to be ready. She wasn't even sure what she wanted to say, just that she had had a momentary impulse to run away. Or maybe just to run in a different direction. Sometime in the night she'd grown used to the idea that she and Rory would be living real life together, building their own future. That they would stop their running, once and for all.

Opening the door of the restaurant, they stepped inside. It was clean, but shabby, the fixtures worn, the linoleum faded. Rory called out, "Hello?"

"We're not open yet. Come back later." The voice answering from out of sight sounded old, tired, unfriendly.

"We're looking for, uh, the owner," Rory called back.

"Not here." The answer was abrupt. "Come back later."

Rory and Amy exchanged glances. They could go back and sit on their bench and wait. But Amy really needed to pee. Taking the initiative, she called out herself, "When will she be here?"

"Never." The answer moved from unfriendly to hostile. The man still hadn't come out from the back room. "Go away."

Amy bit back her sigh. She looked at Rory. He shrugged.

"We'll leave," Amy called, "But do you mind if I use your loo first?"

"My . . . what?" Suddenly, an old man appeared. He was balding, stooped, his shoulders slumped, the white apron he wore stained and yellowing, but his eyes wide. "Say 'at again," he ordered, his New York accent suddenly strong.

"Can I use your loo?" Amy felt vaguely embarrassed to be asking, but she really needed to go.

"The toilet," Rory offered helpfully.

"Red hair, funny accent, hooker clothes," the old man said, as if to himself.

"Hey," Amy protested, defensively giving a tug to the bottom of her short black skirt. It wasn't her fault that she'd been unexpectedly transported to an era that didn't appreciate cute clothing.

"Praise the lord." The old man ignored her, raising his folded hands to the heavens. "Praise the lord." Then hurriedly, he was peeling his apron off and thrusting it at Rory. He fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a heavy key ring.

"Truck's in the alley," he muttered, holding up a key and waggling it as if to demonstrate. He shifted to the next key. "Apartment upstairs. It's been empty for a while, might need some dusting." He held up a third key, then a fourth. "Front door, back door." He handed the key ring to Amy, who took it, blinking in surprise.

"Regulars start showing up at seven. The rush is over by eleven. We're closed on Sundays." He rattled off information as he moved around the restaurant, behind the counter, back in front, disappearing into the back, reappearing. "Grills whatcha might call temperamental. Try not to burn the bacon. People get real pissy about that."

Picking up a hat and a coat from a rack by the door, he stuck the hat on his head, and looking almost jaunty, added, "Don't let the suppliers rip you off. That George McClellan will jack the prices every chance he gets. Any questions?"

"Uh, yes, what are you doing? What are you talking about?" Rory sputtered.

The old man beamed at him. "Tell the boss lady—if ya' ever see her—that we're even now and that if I never lay eyes on her again, it'll be decades too soon."

"Wait, what?" He had to be talking about River, Amy knew, but still, his quick actions had her totally off-balance. "Where are you going?"

"Ha." The man backed out of the door. "You're here and I'm retired. Praise the lord," he repeated. "Praise the lord!"

Amy looked down at the keys in her hand and then she looked over Rory. His mouth was open and he seemed to be as dumbfounded as she felt.

"What just happened?" he asked, shaking his head in disbelief. "Did that man just—"

"I think he just gave us a restaurant," she told him. "And a truck. And an apartment."

"And customers," Rory protested. "And a, a temperamental grill. And suppliers!"

Amy grinned at him. She had no idea how River had set this up or whether it had felt like an incredible long shot when she did. They could easily have missed the sign if they'd walked by in the dark. And yet, River must have believed they'd be looking for ways to communicate, that they wouldn't just assume that their friends would abandon them to their fate. If they checked the phone book, would they find the name of the café there?

A business, a home – it was obvious that River didn't expect them to be leaving New York any time soon. But at the moment, it didn't matter. Amy leaned into Rory and gave him a long, lingering kiss. "Don't burn the bacon," she told him as she pulled away. "I'm going to find our new loo."

And as she walked away, she wondered. What other messages had River left for them in New York? And how would they find them?