I don’t know what else to say to her, so I hug her, then take her hand as we stand up. “Let’s go find the car, okay?” I can almost glimpse Tai’s scalp, and I’m visited by the horrible thought that, vibrant as she is, her pale head could crack against the pavement with the same ease as a porcelain doll’s. My little sister. In moments like this, I hate myself for resenting her when she’s feeling strong and bright. I want her to always feel that way.

“Fine,” she says, walking ahead of me toward the side of the familiar black car blessedly parked in the empty parking lot across the street from us. My shoulders relax. Tai waves just as I spot two blurred shapes in the driver and passenger seat. I squint at them as she places her thumb on the back door handle and jiggles. It’s locked.

“Open up, car,” she says, still barefoot and tapping on the window with her bare fingernails. “This isn’t funny.”

That’s when I peer into the front window and see them staring at me, the cold eyes of two strange men, sitting in the dark. My heart claws its way up to my throat.

It’s the wrong car.

“Let’s go, Tai,” I say, grabbing her arm as she staggers back, the same realization creeping its way to her. “Let’s go now.”

We take refuge and call the car from the visitors’ center.

Mikki sits at the front desk, though now her uniform is wrinkled, her elbows rest on the counter, and her heavy-lidded eyes threaten to close at any moment. When she sees us, she perks up, spine straightening. Tai pastes the most fragile of fake smiles on her face as she asks for a bathroom.

Mikki points in the direction of one, and I know from her strange gait that Tai will somehow manage to wash off her feet, if she has to contort herself like a circus performer for them to reach the sink.

“Did you end up going to you-know-who?” Mikki asks me.

“Yeah. We saw Baba Yuki and then visited the woodcutter.”

“The what?”

I explain where the house is.

“You mean the old Arakit house?” Her face crinkles. “Who sent you there?”

“Baba Yuki.”

“Why?” She drops her voice to a whisper. “You shouldn’t have gone there.”

“Does she have a son?” I ask, ignoring the little jolt I feel.

She considers this, before swirling around in her chair. “Mr. Ixiru?” She bounds toward the back. When she returns, the shriveled older man with peaceful eyes from earlier accompanies her.

“This is my colleague, Mr. Ixiru,” she says, guiding him by the elbow. “He remembers everything.” She gently pats the man’s forearm. “Mr. Ixiru, will you tell them what you know about the old Arakit house? I’ve gotta go home. My mom’s expecting me. Snail tonight.”