Mom was very clear. She no longer wants me around.

At least for now. I'll be gone until the media attention has died down a little, and the risk of our faces on the evening news has reached acceptable low levels. If pressed Mom will share a vague photo of her daughter, which is so generic even I have trouble recognizing myself. I'm getting a little fuzzy due to the lack of sleep, but four days after our arrival, three days after the group suicide, two days after the plane crash, and one day after the interview with friendly female deputy officer Owen, I'm on my way. I've left Hellhole, riding a long-distance bus on my way to the big city.

Yeah. Go me.

Somehow, Mom found out where the plane originated. I'm not entirely sure why it has to be me to go there and investigate. She mentioned something about 'a friend' and 'a favor', then shoved me and my sorry ass into the waiting bus.

Most of the seats are worn out, and my physique doesn't match the lumps and bumps in what's left of the upholstery. After the first hour, my bottom hurts, and I look forward to the moment it goes completely numb.

Another bus… another bus… and yet another bus bites the dust. I remember owning an ancient walkman, autoreverse, running an endless Queen bootleg tape. That would have come in handy as half the USB chargers are broken, and my phone's battery is flat most of the time.

Of course, Mom also saw to it that my route isn't the shortest one possible. At one stage I double back and even cross a previous segment... twice. I know Mom has her reasons, reasons which must be good because her explanations never are. All they do is give me headaches, so I no longer ask. What it does mean is that I'm locked up in these cans-on-wheels for way too long. And I have to spend two nights on empty bus transfer stations, where my dinner is what I can squeeze out of the vending machines. Those that still work. I almost prefer battling gunmen and classmates. Two times I run into Vago, and people stare as I pet my imaginary cat just before I enter the next bus. To me, Vago's as real as it gets.

Spending three days in buses and sleeping on chairs interspersed with too much retrospection doesn't make me feel any better. Others might call it 'brooding'. My arms are covered in scratches and bruises, triggering weird looks from the other passengers. I could have used something to read, like Sweets' book, but the witch took it from me.

I swap a few messages with Sweets, who's not in a talkative mood. I'm under the impression her little swimsuit episode didn't go down well with her parents. As far as I understand it involved a swimming pool, several young men and women, a barbecue, lots of booze and loud music, and a sports car. Which ended up at the bottom of said swimming pool.

Sweets was a little vague on the details.

This might not be the right moment to tell her I lost her book.

I brought the Talespinner coin and fool around with it, but of course, I can't get it to work. That leaves me no choice but to stare out of the windows until my brains try to crawl out of my ears from boredom. My little cash I spend on food. I should have brought some of the money I took of the 'red eyes Blaise girl guardian', but I didn't dare to.

All this roaming about gets me to Saint Quentin, and from there it's two hours over the one-oh-one, through syrupy early morning traffic, until we reach The Golden Place, Baghdad by the Bay, the Paris of the West. Never call it Frisco unless you want to offend the locals. Me, I call it 'the-place-where-I-can-get-out-of-this-stupid-bus-and-stretch-my-legs-mom-I-hate-you' town.

When I'm finally released from my moving prison, I try to sneak up to the roof of the bus terminal. The speaker system plays Time of the Season by the Zombies, followed by the Mamas and the Papas, then Otis Redding, to give me that real San Francisco welcoming vibe.

I've been here before, and there was a good hot dog stand in the park on the roof. It turns out some big-shot IT company has rented the whole roof, and my stumbling about gets me caught when I appropriate a diet-coke and a sandwich or two. The guards who caught me let me finish my breakfast in one of the waiting rooms, and by the time they have figured out what to do with me I'm long gone. I think they arranged my escape. I guess I must look like a hungry bum by now. I am a hungry bum. They would have brought in some real cops if they would have checked my backpack.

I buy tickets at the Muni vending machine, then hop on the bus towards the Marina. There I get out a few stops earlier, at Fort Mason, to get a feeling for the lay of the land.

Two distinctive gentlemen in nineteenth-century clothes cross the road and walk straight through the bus, not looking at one another. They may be translucent, but the disgust and hatred between them is palpable in the air. The other people that got off the bus at this stop shiver as the ghosts pass amongst them, through them, continuing on their way to Fort Mason. I politely greet both ghostly gentlemen, but they ignore me like they ignore everybody else. Fine. I walk the remainder into Marina district, eyeing the harbor and the Golden Gate in the distance. The heat is picking up quickly, making me rapidly regret my decision to take the walk.

I'm short of breath when I stop at the address Mom gave me. It's a little book shop opposite a food store. The flowing lettering on the big window proclaims it to be 'Ludo's Antiquarian Bookshop'. Just to be sure I dig up Mom's letter from my backpack. Yes, this is the place. The sign behind the window of the shop says 'Closed'. I shrug and push the door. It opens.

The smell of old books and the hum of an air conditioner greet me. Near the front, in the middle of the shop, several glass display cases contain what I assume to be the more expensive wares. From its painting on the left wall, a pre-industrial admiral looks sternly at visitors. At his feet rests an antique table flanked by two vintage, green velvet chairs. On the right side stands a large counter, on top sits an old cash register next to a modern pay terminal. Further to the back of the shop are several aisles, filled to the rafters with books.

There's a man behind the counter, late twenties, early thirties, wearing boring glasses, a boring grey suit, a stuffy shirt, and a matching tie. The only two things of interest are his unruly red hair, and his ears which are kinda' weird, overly long and pointy. He looks at me as if I'm a ghost and he's a goldfish.

I try a polite, "Hello? Anybody home?"

To my surprise, someone does live behind those eyes. "You are not supposed to be here. How did you get in?" he says.

"Through the door. The sign said closed, I know, but"--I shrug--"I ignored it. This is the place, isn't it?"

"No, no. I mean, through the door. We're closed and you're not supposed to be here, in here. Excuse me." He hurriedly leaves for the back of the shop, calling out, "Mom! Mom!"

His mom isn't in a hurry. When it takes too long for him to return, I examine the display cases. They contain a few books, but mostly tools and devices that look old and expensive and completely alien to me. I salute the admiral, then pass the cases to study the shelves. Stuffy tomes and modern paperbacks sit peacefully next to each other. Some are leather-bound, adorned with fine gold print on their spines. I can't figure out how the books are organized. Here and there I spot a series, but just as often trilogies are spread over adjacent shelves.

My finger trails over yet another row when I suddenly realize that every single book is unique. There doesn't seem to be another copy of anything. When I spot a row of books with the same title I find each one having a variant cover. Another set has identical covers but the contents are in different languages.

My next random pick is a heavy tome in a pink leather cover, and I marvel at the handwriting and the precise diagrams. It's in English, yes, but not about anything I understand. I think Mom would love it.

When the young man returns his eyes grow wide when he sees me try another volume. A romance novel, a bit old-fashioned. The price tag makes me hastily put it back, no love story is worth that much.

I turn to the young man. "Yes?"

"My mother asks you to wait, she is a bit busy right now. And… could you please stop touching the books?"

I stand on my toes and take a red-sleeved one from the highest shelf I can reach. "Why? This is a bookshop, ain't it?"

"Well, yes, but we're a kind of special book shop, catering to a specific clientele, those who read and pay. You're not one of them." He looks me up and down and sniffs.

I know I must look horrible after all that traveling in mobile prisons, but calling me illiterate? "I can read," I pout.

To prove my point I pick a few additional reads, especially those that look expensive. With each book that I add to my stack his face grows redder.

"Don't you worry, I'll be careful," I lie as I carry my little selection to the admiral's table. When I sit down I tell him a tea would be nice. He doesn't respond. Talk about poor customer service...

The book on top is an epic fantasy, hiding as a boring history book, and I quickly put it aside. Why anyone would want to study a made-up family tree is beyond me. My second pick might be a cookbook, but I have some trouble understanding what a 'grompie' or a 'grobbebol' is, and why you would have to cook them for twenty-four hours. I put it aside for later consideration.

The third book is rather disturbing. It's handwritten in an archaic form of English, and the author seemed quite knowledgeable on torture practices.

The level of detail in the illustrations doesn't make them any more appealing.