Months later I'm hiding in a hotel room in Daikanyama with Alan Lord. He has no police authority in Japan, but he's an old family friend and an FBI agent who'll try to protect me.

Unless we're found first, I'll tell him everything.

It began that November evening with Cynthia in Roppongi. Even earlier, really, when I sensed something eavesdropping on my thoughts.

***

Cynthia waits under the tall spider statue. She faces a nearby skyscraper and the main escalator out of the subway, toggling between them on the lookout for me.

I can't see her face completely, but I don't think she's wearing make-up. It's November, but her black jeans and light orange sweater remind me of Halloween and parties in elementary school. Cynthia never dressed as a princess. She always dressed as a witch, and her favorite prop was a necklace of eyeballs. She wore it every year.

Most people in the crowd are dressed like office workers, but some are students in uniform or tourists. The movie theater, a museum, and a hotel are a short distance away through the mildly chill air. Cynthia's alone, so I relax, which probably means I don't have the energy to impress unknown boys after all. My shoulders drop like forgotten origami, because I relax too much. Dipped in sadness, I stop moving. I have to fight it off, or I'll be no fun.

I touch my necklace, even though I know my appearance is immaculate. If I missed something, my mother fixed it before I got out of the car. I straighten my peach-colored bomber jacket. I'm trying to impress Cynthia, I guess. If she remembers my father's identity, she must remember everything. She's the only person who knows I wanted him to find me. She's the only person who made me laugh so much ever. Maybe she can do it again.

She spots me. I unfreeze, except inside. I move forward and reach out. Cynthia zeros in on my face in surprise. Her cheekbones are so prominent and strong. She raises her arms for a hug, but she's probably aghast. She probably changes her mind about meeting me.

I speed up. I can't help it. It's like someone cut open my stomach and my guts are shooting out. My whole miserable life pours out of my eyes just as Cynthia gets her arms around me. "Oh my God, you're not alright," she says. "You're such a liar."

I can't see her face. Mine is buried in her neck as she holds the back of my head. "I'm sorry," I say.

"Don't be. You're my favorite angsty friend." Her lips touch my ear. "Now tell me to shut up."

"Shut up." The words sputter into her orange sweater. I try to stop soaking her clothes with tears, but she doesn't let go of me. I can't believe I'm crying, sobbing like the betrayed. I can't believe I let her hold me. This is a public plaza under the huge spider statue where there might be a webcam, but I can't stop. My mother won't let me do this at home, which makes me bawl more. I don't know if I'm crying about that or my father, who'll never find me or look for me now. I'm also crying, because Cynthia's alone, and I can't ask if boys are on the way, because that's so superficial and I'm too tired to be entertaining anyway. Cynthia's right to meet me alone. "I'm a pathetic train wreck," I say. "Sorry."

"Cry all you want, Makiko. Everyone's a train wreck." She's serious. I can feel it in the tender way she squeezes me. She's trying to massage out the guilt and hurt.

I'm such a bad time. She'll never want to see me again. I finally get enough air between sobs. "I can't believe I'm crying. I'm so sorry." An apologetic, Japanese stereotype. I'm so ugh.

She moves hair off my face and smiles. "It's okay. I missed you. You're a funny, beautiful weirdo, and I love you."

I snort - a laugh mixed with a sob, because it's like she's teaching me how to be a lover. Maybe I am bi, because I imagine we kiss, but I don't go for one. That would make me an evil tease, and I shouldn't seek that kind of attention from her. Cynthia thinks my wet face is beautiful. I laugh again, better this time, but my laugh is still a strange crying one, like two brains via for control of me. "I bet you say that to all the girls." I manage to look at her nose.

"Yeah, but I mean it when I say it to you." She lets go of me completely. "I can't believe we haven't seen each other for so long." She squeezes my arms and stares at me.

"Me neither." I wipe my face with a wet tissue from my jacket. Even in my pathetic state, I have some wits, I guess, and wet tissues. Cynthia rubs my back. My tears subside, for good I hope. I push my own hair away. After a few more snivels, my defense mechanisms kick in. My heart bangs shut, bolts slide into place, and a hard exoskeleton slides over my pores and messiness. "I don't know why I was crying," I say. "Or laughing."

"You might be crying about your father, dummy." Cynthia puts one hand on my arm but steps back. "We don't have to go to a movie. We could walk around or go to the art museum. We could talk in a coffeeshop. Whatever you want."

I wipe my eyes with a tissue. I can't let another wave of sadness rise up inside me. Famous people live in a nearby apartment building, and sometimes they appear around here. I'm always on the look out for them, just in case. Everyone loves the name-brand stores, so I'm a little surprised Cynthia doesn't mention shopping. Usually, that would be my first choice. "What do you want to do?" I say.

She pretends to think. "Let's see some art." She hooks our arms together. I don't even consider breaking away from her strong grip. "The show right now is bright and colorful and you need that. It includes some work by Yayoi Kusama," she says, assuming I'm in the know. Luckily, I am.

"Do you live around here?" I say.

"No, but I come here a lot. Sometimes I talk to runaways, Japanese girls who are our age or even younger."

Cynthia is different, more of a weirdo than I am I think, but this is really unusual. She's nice, really nice, and we're lucky to be a little rich, but I'm uncomfortable thinking about girls having to survive on the streets. I don't know what to say.

Cynthia talks right through my reaction. "You don't see runaways here but you do in the older parts of Roppongi. Shibuya and Ikebukuro too."

"What do you say to them?"

"Well..." Cynthia pulls me closer as we walk between buildings to get to the museum. "You won't believe it, because everyone says Japan is safe, but they say there's a serial killer on the loose, killing runaways. Some of them believe it's a demon from hell."

A bolt of recognition, a loud clap within. I shiver, because of the voice in my head... I didn't understand until now, but I almost see it stalk girls sometimes, as if I'm watching it from the other side of a black cloud.

I write fan fiction about demons and demon slayers because I see it, but I'm not about to tell Cynthia that. "Stop joking. You don't believe that, do you?" I say.

We're near the museum entrance and other people. She's loud, not caring who hears. "I don't believe it, but they do. I think it's worse. It's the dumb-ass men who abuse and exploit them. Some of those men kill them too."

I know what she means, that they're used and hurt, but I also know we can't do anything about it, not until we're older. And if there is a demon, a real one, one that's not just in my head, what can I say? I don't like seeing what it sees.

We enter the building and an elevator that will take us to the museum on the top floors. Other clean, well-dressed people join us, and everyone is silent as the floors rush by. I'm not an activist like Cynthia or very brave like my father. He could have been killed many times over the years while he photographed wars and conflict. In his way, he was a very caring man. Maybe when I'm older, I can help those girls, but I can't do anything about it now. I'm superficial and cold, I know, because I'm thinking about boys instead of runaway girls, but at least I admire Cynthia. She's a little strange, but I like her fire and compassion. I'm a weirdo too though. She's right about that.

We get to the exhibits, and she takes out a sketchbook. "Do you draw?" she says.

"Not really. I write a little."

"About what?"

I point at the sculpture we paid to see.

"Tell me," Cynthia says.

Cornered, I laugh loudly. "About demons and demon slayers."

She punches my arm hard. "You're funny. I wish you liked girls."

"I love boys. So so much."

"I know, and that's okay. I like boys too." Cynthia slaps her palm on her forehead. "Oh, I'll bring some next time. You can cry all over them. You can soak their clothes with tears."

"Shut up," I say.

Cynthia blows me a kiss.

Did anything about the passage in italics strike you?

Is it believable that Makiko and Cynthia are friends?

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