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And if she can’t explain? Then I give Solo the flash drive.
Inside the warehouse it’s not much warmer, but it’s some improvement, at least. I go to my purse.
Solo is no longer on the couch. He must be … He must be where, exactly?
“Solo.” Nothing. “Solo?”
I know then. I begin the careful, then increasingly desperate, search that will confirm what I already know: The flash drive is gone.
And so is Solo.
– 32 –
I am familiar with the ferry, though I’ve never been here before. A driver has dropped me off at the pier. I have a wallet with money. I have a credit card, too. I have a phone that does everything. It even answers my questions.
I know each of these things, just as I know where to buy the ferry ticket, and how to go aboard. I know in advance what the terminal looks like on the other side of the bay—the bay that I also know even though I should not.
The ferry leaves from Tiburon, which is Spanish for “shark.” I don’t speak Spanish, but I know what that word means.
I’m a few minutes early. There’s a coffee shop full of early morning commuters.
Do I like coffee? I don’t know.
Terra Spiker says I absorbed well. My intelligence is functioning well. My body works. But no one has yet told me what I like or dislike. I only know that I love and care for Evening Spiker. She made me.
I walk into the coffee shop. I know how to order. It almost feels as if I have ordered before, but I haven’t. It’s puzzling.
I reach the counter. A woman is taking orders. Her eyes open wide. Her pupils dilate. She swallows hard.
“What would you like?” Her voice catches.
“Coffee. A cappuccino.”
“Anything else? A pastry?”
“No. Not a pastry.”
“That’ll be three dollars and ten cents.”
I count out some money.
I wait for my coffee. People stare at me. Some of the men don’t like me. Some of the men do. All of the women like me. Some of them pretend not to notice me, but they steal a glance, then look away.
A couple joins the group of people waiting for their orders, a young man, maybe twenty, and a girl, maybe a little younger. The girl looks at me and her mouth opens. The boy moves between us, blocking the girl from view. She steps out from behind him. She’s smiling just a little. She bites her lower lip.
My coffee is ready. I take it. I say, “Thank you.”
“No, thank you,” the barista says.
The ferry is pulling in. I can see it through the plate glass. I head toward it. A man holds the door open for me.
I’m aware that people are following me. They are not in a precise line behind me. They form a loose knot, keeping pace with me. They are close, but not too close. Other people are jostled. I am not.
The sun is coming up behind tree-covered Angel Island. The fog lies between us and the city and I know this because I know a great deal about the area, though I’ve never been here.
An idea occurs to me. I try to think of what lies to the east of this area. I make it as far as a city called Berkeley. I have detailed information that far, street by street information, but then the map in my head turns vague. I know that somewhere out there is a city called Chicago. And another one called New York. And a place called Europe. I know a little about them, but only a very little.
Interesting. I’ve been incompletely educated. I know a lot about finding Evening, and I know almost nothing about anything else.
