Chapter 5

I’m asleep when our bus drives across the huge new bridge over the Inland Sea. I’d seen the bridge only on maps and had been looking forward to seeing it for real. Somebody gently taps me on the shoulder and I wake up.

“Hey, we’re here,” the girl says.

I stretch, rub my eyes with the back of my hand, and look out the window. Sure enough, the bus is just pulling into what looks like the square in front of a station. Fresh morning sunlight lights up the scene. Almost blinding, but gentle somehow, the light is different from what I was used to in Tokyo. I glance at my watch. 6:32.

“Gosh, what a long trip,” she says tiredly. “I thought my lower back was going to give out. And my neck’s killing me. You aren’t going to catch me on an all-night bus again. I’m taking the plane from now on, even if it’s more expensive. Turbulence, hijackings—I don’t care. Give me a plane any day.”

I lower her suitcase and my backpack from the overhead rack. “What’s your name?” I ask.

“My name?”

“Yeah.”

“Sakura,” she says. “What about you?”

“Kafka Tamura,” I reply.

“Kafka Tamura,” she muses. “Weird name. Easy to remember, though.”

I nod. Becoming a different person might be hard, but taking on a different name is a cinch.

She gets off the bus, sets her suitcase on the ground, and plunks herself down on top, then pulls a notebook from a pocket in her small backpack, scribbles down something, rips the page out, and hands it to me. A phone number, by the looks of it.

“My cell phone number,” she says with a wry expression. “I’m staying at my friend’s place for a while, but if you ever feel like seeing somebody, give me a call. We can go out for a bite or whatever. Don’t be a stranger, okay? ‘Even chance meetings’ . . . how does the rest of that go?”

“‘Are the result of karma.’”

“Right, right,” she says. “But what does it mean?”

“That things in life are fated by our previous lives. That even in the smallest events there’s no such thing as coincidence.”

She sits there on her yellow suitcase, notebook in hand, giving it some thought. “Hmm . . . that’s a kind of philosophy, isn’t it. Not such a bad way of thinking about life. Sort of a reincarnation, New Age kind of thing. But, Kafka, remember this, okay? I don’t go around giving my cell phone number to just anybody. You know what I mean?”

I appreciate it, I tell her. I fold up the piece of paper and stick it in the pocket of my windbreaker. Thinking better of it, I transfer it to my wallet.

“So how long’ll you be in Takamatsu?” Sakura asks.

“I don’t know yet,” I say. “It depends on how things go.”

She gazes intently at me, her head tilted slightly to one side. Okay, whatever, she might be thinking. She climbs into a cab, gives a little wave, and takes off.

Once again I’m all alone. Sakura, I think—not my sister’s name. But names are changed easily enough. Especially when you’re trying to try to run away from somebody.

I have a reservation at a business hotel in Takamatsu. The YMCA in Tokyo had told me about the place, and through them I got a discount on the room. But that’s only for the first three days, then it goes back to the normal room rate.

If I really wanted to save money, I could just sack out on a bench in front of the station, or since it’s still warm out, I could sleep in my sleeping bag in a park somewhere. But then the cops will come and card me—the one thing I have to avoid at all costs. That’s why I went for the hotel reservation, at least for three days. After that I’ll figure something out.

At the station I pop into the first little diner that catches my eye, and eat my fill of udon. Born and raised in Tokyo, I haven’t had much udon in my life. But now I’m in Udon Central—Shikoku—and confronted with noodles like nothing I’ve ever seen. They’re chewy and fresh, and the soup smells great, really fragrant. And talk about cheap. It all tastes so good I order seconds, and for the first time in who knows how long, I’m happily stuffed. Afterward I plop myself down on a bench in the plaza next to the station and gaze up at the sunny sky. I’m free, I remind myself. Like the clouds floating across the sky, I’m all by myself, totally free.

I decide to kill time till evening at a library. Ever since I was little I’ve loved to spend time in the reading rooms of libraries, so I’ve come to Takamatsu armed with info on all the libraries in and around the city. Think about it—a little kid who doesn’t want to go home doesn’t have many places he can go. Coffee shops and movie theaters are off-limits. That leaves only libraries, and they’re perfect—no entrance fee, nobody getting all hot and bothered if a kid comes in. You just sit down and read whatever you want. I always rode my bike to the local public library after school. Even on holidays that’s where you’d find me. I’d devour anything and everything—novels, biographies, histories, whatever was lying around. Once I’d gone through all the children’s books, I went on to the general stacks and books for adults. I might not always get much out of them, but I forged on to the very last page. When I got tired of reading I’d go into one of those listening booths with headphones and enjoy some music. I had no idea about music so I just went down the row of CDs they had there, giving them all a listen. That’s how I got to know about Duke Ellington, the Beatles, and Led Zeppelin.

The library was like a second home. Or maybe more like a real home, more than the place I lived in. By going every day I got to know all the lady librarians who worked there. They knew my name and always said hi. I was painfully shy, though, and could barely reply.

Before coming to Takamatsu I found out some wealthy man from an old family in the suburbs had renovated his personal library into a private library open to the public. The place has a lot of rare books, and I heard that the building itself and the surrounding garden were worth checking out. I saw a photo of the place once in Taiyo magazine. It’s a large, Japanese-style house with this really elegant reading room that looks more like a parlor, where people are sitting with their books on comfortable-looking sofas. For some reason that photo really stayed with me, and I wanted to see this in person if someday the chance came along. The Komura Memorial Library, the place was called.

I go over to the tourist information booth at the station and ask how to get there. A pleasant middle-aged lady marks the spot on a tourist map and gives me instructions on which train to take. It’s about a twenty-minute ride, she explains. I thank her and study the schedule posted inside the station. Trains run about every twenty minutes. I have some time, so I pick up a takeout lunch at one of the little shops.

The train is just two little cars coupled together. The tracks cut through a high-rise shopping district, then past a mix of small shops and houses, factories and warehouses. Next comes a park and an apartment building under construction. I press my face against the window, drinking in the unfamiliar sights. I’ve hardly ever been outside of Tokyo, and everything looks fresh and new. The train I’m on, going out of town, is nearly empty this time of the morning, but the platforms on the other side are packed with junior and senior high school kids in summer uniforms, schoolbags slung across their shoulders. All heading to school. Not me, though. I’m alone, going in the opposite direction. We’re on different tracks in more ways than one. All of a sudden the air feels thin and something heavy is bearing down on my chest. Am I really doing the right thing? The thought makes me feel helpless, isolated. I turn my back on the schoolkids and try not to look at them anymore.

The train runs along the sea for a time, then cuts inland. We pass tall fields of corn, grapevines, tangerine trees growing on terraced hills. An occasional irrigation pond sparkles in the sunlight. A river winding through a flat stretch of land looks cool and inviting, an empty lot is overgrown with summer grasses. At one point we pass a dog standing by the tracks, staring vacantly at the train rushing by. Watching this scenery makes me feel warm and calm all over again. You’re going to be okay, I tell myself, taking a deep breath. All you can do is forge on ahead.

At the station I follow the map and walk north past rows of old stores and houses. Both sides of the street are lined with walls around people’s homes. I’ve never seen so many different kinds—black walls made out of boards, white walls, granite block walls, stone walls with hedges on top. The whole place is still and silent, with no one else on the street. Hardly any cars pass by. The air smells like the sea, which must be nearby. I listen carefully but can’t hear any waves. Far off, though, I hear the faint bee-like buzz of an electric saw, maybe from a construction site. Small signs with arrows pointing toward the library line the road from the station, so I can’t get lost.

Right in front of the Komura Memorial Library’s imposing front gate stand two neatly trimmed plum trees. Inside the gate a gravel path winds past other beautifully manicured bushes and trees—pines and magnolias, kerria and azaleas—with not a fallen leaf in sight. A couple of stone lanterns peek out between the trees, as does a small pond. Finally I get to the intricately designed entrance. I come to a halt in front of the open front door, hesitating for a moment about going inside. This place doesn’t look like any library I’ve ever seen. But having come all this way I might as well take the plunge. Just inside the entrance a young man is sitting behind a counter where you check your bags. I slough off my backpack, then take off my sunglasses and cap.

“Is this your first visit?” he asks me in a relaxed, quiet voice. It’s slightly high-pitched, but smooth and soothing.

I nod, but the words don’t come. The question takes me by surprise and makes me kind of tense.

A long, freshly sharpened pencil between his fingers, the young man gazes intently at my face for a while. The pencil is yellow, with an eraser at the end. The man’s face is on the small side, his features regular. Pretty, rather than handsome, might describe him best. He’s wearing a button-down white cotton shirt and olive green chinos, with not a single wrinkle on either. When he looks down his longish hair falls over his brow, and occasionally he notices this and fingers it back. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, revealing slender white wrists. Delicately framed glasses nicely complement his features. The small plastic name tag pinned to his chest says Oshima . Not exactly the type of librarian I’m used to.

“Feel free to use the stacks,” he tells me, “and if you find a book you’d like to read, just bring it to the reading room. Rare books have a red seal on them, and for those you’ll need to fill out a request card. Over there to the right is the reference room. There’s a card index and a computer you can use to search for material. We don’t allow any books to be checked out. We don’t carry any magazines or newspapers. No cameras are allowed. And neither is making copies of anything. All food and beverages should be consumed outside on the benches. And we close at five.” He lays his pencil on the desk and adds, “Are you in high school?”

“Yes, I am,” I say after taking a deep breath.

“This library is a little different from the ones you’re probably used to,” he says. “We specialize in certain genres of books, mainly old books by tanka and haiku poets. Naturally, we have a selection of general books as well. Most of the people who ride the train all the way out here are doing research in those fields. No one comes here to read the latest Stephen King novel. We might get the occasional graduate student, but very seldom someone your age. So—are you researching tanka or haiku, then?”

“No,” I answer.

“That’s what I thought.”

“Is it still okay for me to use the library?” I ask timidly, trying to keep my voice from cracking.

“Of course.” He smiles and places both hands on the desk. “This is a library, and anybody who wants to read is welcome. This can be our little secret, but I’m not particularly fond of tanka or haiku myself.”

“It’s a really beautiful building,” I say.

He nods. “The Komura family’s been a major sake producer since the Edo period,” he explains, “and the previous head of the family was quite a bibliophile, nationally famous for scouring the country in search of books. His father was himself a tanka poet, and many writers used to stop by here when they came to Shikoku. Wakayama Bokusui, for instance, or Ishikawa Takuboku, and Shiga Naoya. Some of them must have found it quite comfortable here, because they stayed a long time. All in all, the family spared no expense when it came to the literary arts. What usually happens with a family like that is eventually a descendant squanders the inheritance, but fortunately the Komuras avoided that fate. They enjoyed their hobby, in its place, but made sure the family business did well.”

“So they were rich,” I say, stating the obvious.

“Very much so.” His lips curve ever so slightly. “They aren’t as rich now as they were before the war, but they’re still pretty wealthy. Which is why they can maintain such a wonderful library. Of course making it a foundation helps lower their inheritance tax, but that’s another story. If you’re really interested in this building I suggest you take the little tour at two. It’s only once a week, on Tuesdays, which happens to be today. There’s a rather unique collection of paintings and drawings on the second floor, and the building itself is, architecturally, quite fascinating. I know you’ll enjoy it.”

“Thank you,” I say.

You’re quite welcome, his smile suggests. He picks his pencil up again and starts tapping the eraser end on the desk like he’s gently encouraging me.

“Are you the one who does the tour?”

Oshima smiles. “No, I’m just a lowly assistant, I’m afraid. A lady named Miss Saeki is in charge here—my boss. She’s related to the Komuras and does the tour herself. I know you’ll like her. She’s a wonderful person.”

I go into the high-ceilinged stacks and wander among the shelves, searching for a book that looks interesting. Magnificent thick beams run across the ceiling of the room, and gentle early-summer sunlight is shining through the open window, the chatter of birds in the garden filtering in. The books in the shelves in front of me, sure enough, are just like Oshima said, mainly books of Japanese poetry. Tanka and haiku, essays on poetry, biographies of various poets. There are also a lot of books on local history. A shelf farther back contains general humanities—collections of Japanese literature, world literature, and individual writers, classics, philosophy, drama, art history, sociology, history, biography, geography. . . . When I open them, most of the books have the smell of an earlier time leaking out between the pages—a special odor of the knowledge and emotions that for ages have been calmly resting between the covers. Breathing it in, I glance through a few pages before returning each book to its shelf.

Finally I decide on a multivolume set, with beautiful covers, of the Burton translation of The Arabian Nights, pick out one volume, and take it back to the reading room. I’ve been meaning to read this book. Since the library has just opened for the day, there’s no one else there and I have the elegant reading room all to myself. It’s exactly like in the photo in the magazine—roomy and comfortable, with a high ceiling. Every once in a while a gentle breeze blows in through the open window, the white curtain rustling softly in air that has a hint of the sea. And I love the comfortable sofa. An old upright piano stands in a corner, and the whole place makes me feel like I’m in some friend’s home.

As I relax on the sofa and gaze around the room a thought hits me: This is exactly the place I’ve been looking for forever. A little hideaway in some sinkhole somewhere. I’d always thought of it as a secret, imaginary place, and can barely believe that it actually exists . I close my eyes and take a breath, and like a gentle cloud the wonder of it all settles over me. I slowly stroke the creamish cover of the sofa, then stand up and walk over to the piano and lift the cover, laying all ten fingers down on the slightly yellowed keys. I shut the cover and walk across the faded grape-patterned carpet to the window and test the antique handle that opens and closes it. I switch the floor lamp on and off, then check out all the paintings hanging on the walls. Finally I plop back down on the sofa and pick up reading where I left off, focusing on The Arabian Nights for a while.

At noon I take my bottle of mineral water and box lunch out to the veranda that faces the garden and sit down to eat. Different kinds of birds fly overhead, fluttering from one tree to the next or flying down to the pond to drink and groom themselves. There are some I’ve never seen before. A large brown cat makes an appearance, which is their signal to clear out of there, even though the cat looks like he couldn’t care less about birds. All he wants is to stretch out on the stepping stones and enjoy the warm sunlight.

“Is your school closed today?” Oshima asks when I drop off my backpack on my way back to the reading room.

“No,” I reply, carefully choosing my words, “I just decided to take some time off.”

“Refusing to go to school,” he says.

“I guess so.”

Oshima looks at me with great interest. “You guess so.”

“I’m not refusing to go to school. I just decided not to.”

“Very calmly, all on your own, you stopped going to school?”

I merely nod. I have no idea how to reply.

“According to Aristophanes in Plato’s Symposium, in the ancient world of myth there were three types of people,” Oshima says. “Have you heard about this?”

“No.”

“In ancient times people weren’t just male or female, but one of three types: male/male, male/female, or female/female. In other words, each person was made out of the components of two people. Everyone was happy with this arrangement and never really gave it much thought. But then God took a knife and cut everybody in half, right down the middle. So after that the world was divided just into male and female, the upshot being that people spend their time running around trying to locate their missing other half.”

“Why did God do that?”

“Divide people into two? You got me. God works in mysterious ways. There’s that whole wrath-of-God thing, all that excessive idealism and so on. My guess is it was punishment for something. Like in the Bible. Adam and Eve and the Fall and so forth.”

“Original sin,” I say.

“That’s right, original sin.” Oshima holds his pencil between his middle and index fingers, twirling it ever so slightly as if testing the balance. “Anyway, my point is that it’s really hard for people to live their lives alone.”

Back in the reading room I return to “The Tale of Abu-l-Hasan, the Wag,” but my mind wanders away from the book. Male/male, male/female, and female/female?

At two o’clock I lay down my book and get up from the sofa to join the tour of the building. Miss Saeki, leading the tour, is a slim woman I’d guess is in her mid-forties. She’s a little on the tall side for someone of her generation. She’s wearing a blue half-sleeved dress and a cream-colored cardigan, and has excellent posture. Her long hair is loosely tied back, her face very refined and intelligent looking, with beautiful eyes and a shadowy smile playing over her lips, a smile whose sense of completeness is indescribable. It reminds me of a small, sunny spot, the special patch of sunlight you find only in some remote, secluded place. My house back in Tokyo has one just like that in the garden, and ever since I was little I loved that bright little spot.

She makes a strong impression on me, making me feel wistful and nostalgic. Wouldn’t it be great if this were my mother? But I think the same thing every time I run across a charming, middle-aged woman. The chances that Miss Saeki’s actually my mother are close to zero, I realize. Still, since I have no idea what my mother looks like, or even her name, the possibility does exist, right? There’s nothing that rules it out completely.

The only other people taking the tour are a middle-aged couple from Osaka. The wife is short and pudgy with glasses as thick as a Coke bottle. The husband’s a skinny guy with hair so stiff I bet he needs a wire brush to tame it. With narrow eyes and a broad forehead, he reminds me of some statue on a southern island, eyes fixed on the horizon. The wife keeps up a one-sided conversation, her husband just grunting out a monosyllable every once in a while to let her know he’s still alive. Other than that, he gives the occasional nod to show he’s properly impressed or else mutters some fragmentary comment I can’t catch. Both of them are dressed more for mountain climbing than for visiting a library, each wearing a waterproof vest with a million pockets, sturdy lace-up boots, and hiking hats. Maybe this is how they always dress when they go on a trip, who knows. They seem okay—not that I’d want them as parents or anything—and I’m relieved not to be the only one taking the tour.

Miss Saeki begins by explaining the library’s history—basically the same story Oshima told me. How they opened to the public the books and paintings the umpteenth head of the family had collected, devoting the library to the region’s cultural development. A foundation was set up based on the Komura fortune and now managed the library and occasionally sponsored lectures, chamber music concerts, and the like. The building itself dated from the early Meiji period, when it was built to serve double duty as the family library and guesthouse. In the Taisho period it was completely renovated as a two-story building, with the addition of magnificent guest rooms for visiting writers and artists. From the Taisho to the early Showa period, many famous artists visited the Komuras, leaving behind mementos—poems, sketches, and paintings—in gratitude for having been allowed to stay here.

“You’ll be able to view some selected items from this valuable collection in the second-floor gallery,” Miss Saeki adds. “Before World War II, a vibrant local culture was established less through the efforts of local government than those of wealthy connoisseurs such as the Komura family. They were, in short, patrons of the arts. Kagawa Prefecture has produced quite a number of talented tanka and haiku poets, and one reason for this was the dedication with which the Komura family founded and supported the local art scene. Quite a number of books, essays, and reminiscences have been published on the history of these fascinating artistic circles, all of which are in our reading room. I hope you’ll take the opportunity to look at them.

“The heads of the Komura family down through the years have been well versed in the arts, with an especially refined appreciation of the truly excellent. This might have run in the blood. They were very discerning patrons of the arts, supporting artists with the highest aims who produced the most outstanding works. But as you’re surely aware, in the arts there is no such thing as an absolutely perfect eye. Unfortunately, some exceptional artists did not win their favor or were not received by them as they deserved to be. One of these was the haiku poet Taneda Santoka. According to the guestbook, Santoka stayed here on numerous occasions, each time leaving behind poems and drawings. The head of the family, however, called him a ‘beggar and a braggart,’ wouldn’t have much to do with him, and in fact threw away most of these works.”

“What a terrible waste,” the lady from Osaka says, apparently truly sorry to hear this. “Nowadays Santoka fetches a hefty price.”

“You’re exactly right,” Miss Saeki says, beaming. “But at the time, he was an unknown, so perhaps it couldn’t be helped. There are many things we only see clearly in retrospect.”

“You got that right,” the husband pipes in.

After this Miss Saeki guides us around the first floor, showing us the stacks, the reading room, the rare-books collection.

“When he built this library, the head of the family decided not to follow the simple and elegant style favored by artists in Kyoto, instead choosing a design more like a rustic dwelling. Still, as you can see, in contrast to the bold structure of the building, the furnishings and picture frames are quite elaborate and luxurious. The carving of these wooden panels, for instance, is very elegant. All the finest master craftsmen in Shikoku were assembled to work on the construction.”

Our little group starts upstairs, a vaulted ceiling soaring over the staircase. The ebony railing’s so highly polished it looks like you’ll leave a mark if you touch it. On a stained-glass window next to the landing, a deer stretches out its neck to nibble at some grapes. There are two parlors on the second floor, as well as a spacious hall that in the past was probably lined with tatami for banquets and gatherings. Now the floor is plain wood, and the walls are covered with framed calligraphy, hanging scrolls, and Japanese-style paintings. In the center, a glass case displays various mementos and the story behind each. One parlor is in the Japanese style, the other Western. The Western-style room contains a large writing desk and a swivel chair that look like someone’s still using. There’s a line of pines outside the window behind the desk, and the horizon’s faintly visible between the trees.

The couple from Osaka walks around the parlor, inspecting all the items, reading the explanations in the pamphlet. Every time the wife makes a comment, the husband chimes in to second her opinion. A lucky couple that agrees on everything. The things on display don’t do much for me, so I check out the details of the building’s construction. While I’m nosing around the Western parlor Miss Saeki comes up to me and says, “You can sit in that chair, if you’d like to. Shiga Naoya and Tanizaki both sat there at one time or another. Not that this is the same chair, of course.”

I sit down on the swivel chair and quietly rest my hands on the desk.

“How is it? Feel like you could write something?”

I blush a little and shake my head. Miss Saeki laughs and goes back to the couple. From the chair I watch how she carries herself, every motion natural and elegant. I can’t express it well, but there’s definitely something special about it, as if her retreating figure is trying to tell me something she couldn’t express while facing me. But what this is, I haven’t a clue. Face it, I remind myself—there’re tons of things you don’t have a clue about.

Still seated, I give the room a once-over. On the wall is an oil painting, apparently of the seashore nearby. It’s done in an old-fashioned style, but the colors are fresh and alive. On top of the desk is a large ashtray and a lamp with a green lampshade. I push the switch and, sure enough, the light comes on. A black clock hangs on the opposite wall, an antique by the looks of it, though the hands tell the right time. There are round spots worn here and there into the wooden floor, and it creaks slightly when you walk on it.

At the end of the tour the Osaka couple thanks Miss Saeki and disappears. It turns out they’re members of a tanka circle in the Kansai region. I wonder what kind of poems they compose—the husband, especially. Grunts and nods don’t add up to poetry. But maybe writing poetry brings out some hidden talent in the guy.

I return to the reading room and pick up where I’d left off in my book. Over the afternoon a few other readers filter in, most of them with those reading glasses old people wear and that everybody looks the same in. Time passes slowly. Nobody says a word, everyone lost in quiet reading. One person sits at a desk jotting down notes, but the rest are sitting there silently, not moving, totally absorbed. Just like me.

At five o’clock I shut my book and put it back on the shelf. At the exit I ask, “What time do you open in the morning?”

“Eleven,” Oshima replies. “Planning on coming back tomorrow?”

“If it’s no bother.”

Oshima narrows his eyes as he looks at me. “Of course not. A library’s a place for people who want to read. I’d be happy if you came back. I hope you don’t mind my asking, but do you always carry that backpack with you? It looks pretty heavy. What in the world could be inside? A stack of Krugerrands, perhaps?”

I blush.

“Don’t worry—I’m not really trying to find out.” Oshima presses the eraser end of his pencil against his right temple. “Well, see you tomorrow.”

“Bye,” I say.

Instead of raising his hand, he lifts his pencil in farewell.

I take the train back to Takamatsu Station. For dinner I stop inside a cheap diner near the station and order chicken cutlet and a salad. I have a second helping of rice and a glass of warm milk after the meal. At a mini-mart outside I buy a bottle of mineral water and two rice balls in case I get hungry in the middle of the night, then start for my hotel. I walk not too fast or too slow, at an ordinary pace just like everybody else, so no one notices me.

The hotel is pretty large, a typical second-rate business hotel. I fill in the register at the front desk, giving Kafka instead of my real first name, a phony address and age, and pay for one night. I’m a little nervous, but none of the clerks seem suspicious. Nobody yells out, Hey, we can see right through your ruse, you little fifteen-year-old runaway! Everything goes smooth as silk, business as usual.

The elevator clanks ominously to the sixth floor. The room is minuscule, outfitted with an uninviting bed, a rock-hard pillow, a miniature excuse for a desk, a tiny TV, sun-bleached curtains. The bathroom is barely the size of a closet, with none of those little complimentary shampoo or conditioner bottles. The view out the window is of the wall of the building next door. I shouldn’t complain, though, since I have a roof over my head and hot water coming out of the tap. I plunk my backpack on the floor, sit down on the chair, and try to acclimatize myself to the surroundings.

I’m free, I think. I shut my eyes and think hard and deep about how free I am, but I can’t really understand what it means. All I know is I’m totally alone. All alone in an unfamiliar place, like some solitary explorer who’s lost his compass and his map. Is this what it means to be free? I don’t know, and I give up thinking about it.

I take a long, hot bath and carefully brush my teeth in front of the sink. I flop down in bed and read, and when I get tired of that I watch the news on TV. Compared to everything I’ve gone through that day, though, the news seems stale and boring. I switch off the TV and get under the covers. It’s ten p.m., but I can’t get to sleep. A new day in a brand-new place. And my fifteenth birthday, besides—most of which I spent in that charming, offbeat library. I met a few new people. Sakura. Oshima. Miss Saeki. Nobody threatening, thank God. A good omen?

I think about my home back in Nogata, in Tokyo, and my father. How did he feel when he found I’d suddenly disappeared? Relieved, maybe? Confused? Or maybe nothing at all. I’m betting he hasn’t even noticed I’m gone.

I suddenly remember my father’s cell phone and take it out of my backpack. I switch it on and dial my home number. It starts ringing, 450 miles away, as clearly as if I were calling the room next door. Startled by this, I hang up after two rings. My heart won’t stop pounding. The phone still works, which means my father hasn’t canceled the contract. Maybe he hasn’t noticed the phone’s missing from his desk. I shove the phone back in the pocket of my backpack, turn off the light, and close my eyes. I don’t dream. Come to think of it, I haven’t had any dreams in a long time. ZeTTnKhIy4wPZoO2mAy5dwpHB6TT/JO5Mpzqe8cSZnYoSRTbv4URpdJ8RAElRo5b