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I showered using my own soap and shampoo and dressed in my own clothes—a yellow dress with red heels. To top off my look, I applied a layer of mascara and cherry red lipstick. Then I checked myself in the communal mirror.Yes.This was the true me: powerful, commanding, smoking hot. If only I’d had my bag sooner, this mission would have been solved by now. Happiness was looking like a pinup model while crushing my foes. Confidence was my super power.
I tucked my bag back into the locked cubby next to Imogen’s and headed to the front desk with Fernando by my side.
The boy behind the desk was new, or at least I didn’t remember seeing him before. His long black hair reminded me of depressing curtains, and hid half of his face.
“Good morning, good sir,” I said. “I require information.”
“You can’t bring pets in here,” he said, with a glance at Fernando, who was now sitting on the counter.
“Fernando is not a pet,” I said. “He’s family.”
“Whatever you call it, ferrets aren’t allowed.” The boy pointed to a sign above him with the black outline of a dog covered by a red circle with a line through it.
Ferret was an interesting descriptor, and it said more about the boy than about Fernando. Most people would see him as a dog, cat, or small child.
Fernando shot me a nervous look.
“Fernando belongs with me,” I said.
Fernando puffed himself up and crossed his arms with confidence.
“Whatever, lady,” the boy said. “I don’t really care what you do. But if I don’t tell you, I can get in trouble.”
“Understood,” I said. “As for my questions, what do you know about Noah Darie?”
“Who?”
“The Whirl driver,” I said. “Inorog is a tight-knit community, is it not? Where everyone knows everyone else’s secrets?”
The boy shrugged.
Switching gears, I asked, “What can you tell me about the museum?”
“There’s a museum?”
He was useless. “Thank you for your time.”
I picked up Fernando, who happily climbed around the back of my head, and headed out the door. Our next stop was quite possibly the most important of the coming day—breakfast.
We stocked up on every variety of snack cake in the gas station convenience store, then set up our stash on the bench between us on the sidewalk out front.
There was only one brand, with fewer and different varieties than I’d found in the states. I opened one markedunt,which translated to butter in Romanian, and took a bite.
It was somehow greasy and dry at the same time, like most pre-packaged snack cakes. There was a saltiness added to the sickening sweetness, which I liked.
Fernando tossed cake after cake into his mouth, with the packaging still intact, chewed once, then swallowed the lot.
“They taste better without the plastic,” I told him.
“Next time,” he said.
With full stomachs, we returned to the convenience store clerk for interrogation.
“What do you know about Noah Darie?” I asked.
The woman behind the counter appeared to be in her late sixties, a more promising prospect after the failure with the hostel boy.
“Who?”
