“In Hollywood,” said Manfred in his clipped, foreign English. “In the heart of the matter.”

“And what do you do when you’re not, like, monitoring a bus or acting like Bruce Lee?”

“I write.”

“Screenplays?”

“I am an essayist,” said Manfred, turning and swimming the other way.

“How come you ended up in L.A.?”

“My subject is the decline of civilization,” he said, craning his neck so his hair wouldn’t get wet. “Also, I love the weather, and I was left a house.”

I had thought a few times about calling my mother and letting her know where we were. I couldn’t shake a sense of wrongdoing. Once we’d eased into Los Angeles in our enormous vehicle, Manfred sitting vigilantly as always as the wheel turned of its own accord, we stopped at a gas station, where I bought a disposable phone. Manfred leaned against a wall nearby, drinking a bottle of green juice with a paper straw, as I punched out my parents’ number. My eyes were on the bus, where E was sleeping. Holly was watching over her.

My mother answered after the first ring.

“Hello?” Her voice sounded anxious, speedy.

“Hi, Mom.”

A long silence followed. My father came to the phone.

“Roxanne. Sweetheart, where are you?”

“I just wanted you guys to know that we’re safe.”

“Please come home now. Mommy is very upset.”

“Is she?”

“Of course she is.”

“Why?”

“Because she loves you so much.”

I could see them sitting in the kitchen, his worried potato head and her frantic little body huddled around the phone. She was listening in. I could hear her breathing. Even her silence was a ploy. I hung up and threw the phone away.

Manfred stepped out from the shadow of the building.

“You know, Roxanne, you should bring that little creature back to her mother,” he said, looking down at me. His yellow visor cast a jaundiced glow on his blue-black skin, making him look green.

“Were you listening to my conversation?” I asked.

“I don’t have to. I can imagine your story. I am a writer, after all,” he added, smiling to reveal his strong, white, prominent canines. His eyes were black, the whites gleaming. Manfred was the healthiest-looking person I had ever seen.

As I climbed the steps onto the bus, I met Harvest descending. He looked disheveled and had clearly just woken up. As he passed me, he touched my fingers, sort of half held my hand, then let go. I looked up at him, confused. I had thought he despised me. He didn’t return my glance, just walked off the bus as the doors closed with a hiss.

In the back, Holly was reading on a tablet.

“She’s still sleeping, I just checked her,” she said.

“I talked to my mom,” I said.

“What did you do that for?”

“I used a burner phone. I just wanted her to know we were okay.”