A briefcase bashes my calf. I spot the clock on the wall. Half past five: the evening rush hour. The realization makes my brain hurt. I can never sleep on planes. I’ve been awake for two whole days.

“Have you ever lost someone you love?” the woman asks.

I turn back to her. Because I have. Lost someone.

“She was backpacking here.” The woman nods at my bags. “Like you.”

I’m not backpacking, I want to tell her, but she doesn’t give me a chance.

“They’re in a foreign country and they don’t know anyone. If they disappear, it’s days before anyone notices. They’re easy targets.”

With the final word, her voice cracks. She lowers her head, shoulders shaking. I drape my arms awkwardly around her. My palms are damp; I don’t want to ruin her blouse. I need to get going, but I haven’t got the heart to leave her like this. Should I take her somewhere—buy her a cup of tea? But I want to get to Mikki’s place before it gets dark. I’ll give her a minute and hope she cries herself out.

Office workers file past. The women seem better groomed than their British counterparts: all glossy hair and tanned legs in heels and short skirts. The men wear their shirts with the sleeves rolled up and top two buttons undone, suit jackets slung over their shoulders, ties nowhere in sight.

Sweat pools under my armpits. This sticky humidity, Mikki always moaned about it: Nearly as bad as Japan. It’s March, the Australian autumn, and I hadn’t expected it to be this hot.

I watch the touts handing out flyers. The Thai restaurant guy offers a flyer to anyone who’ll take one but the others seem to be targeting backpackers. With their oversized backpacks and milk-white or sunburnt limbs, they stand out a mile. Easy targets.

Elke’s mother sniffs. “Sorry.” She hunts through her handbag and pulls out tissues.

“No problem,” I say. “Are you okay?”

She dabs her eyes, sheepish now. “I let you go. But you be careful, yes?”

“I will. And don’t worry about me. I’m not a backpacker. I’m here to visit a friend. She’s getting married.”

“Oh, my apologies. She’ll be expecting you.”

“Yes,” I say.

She isn’t, though.

CHAPTER 2

KENNA

“I’m going to kill you!” Mikki says.

I stand on her doorstep, hunched under the weight of my backpack. “I knew you’d be mad.”

Freckles pepper Mikki’s cheeks and forehead. Her long hair, previously glossy and black, is matted and burned brown by the Australian sun. The flowering tree beside her front door scents the night air with an exotic smell, highlighting the fact that I’m on the other side of the world.