That morning when she turned on the TV, the first thing she saw was a talk show reporting on the murder. They didn’t show Yuichi’s photo, but rather a graphic of Mitsuse Pass straddling the Saga and Fukuoka prefecture border, and the highway in both directions. Symbols indicated the murdered girl’s apartment in Hakata, the apartment on the outskirts of Saga City where Yuichi’s girl lived, and Yuichi’s home here in Nagasaki. One more symbol showed where Yuichi’s car had been abandoned, in Arita, and where a witness had seen them in a hotel.

The report said it wasn’t clear yet whether Yuichi had forced the girl to go with him, or whether she’d gone along voluntarily. According to the employee of the hotel who had spotted them, “the girl seemed to be pulling him by the hand,” to which an ill-tempered commentator added disgustedly: “If they’re running away together, the guy’s an idiot, and so is she. What I mean is this is the kind of girl who latches on to guys like that. It’s disgusting.”

Surrounded by reporters and cameras, Fusae finally made it to the bus stop. The microphones thrust at her occasionally brushed against her ears.

Even at the bus stop, the barrage of questions didn’t let up. Fusae didn’t say a word, which led one irritated reporter to shout, “Does your silence mean that you admit it’s true?” trying to force her into making a comment.

Luckily, there was no one else at the bus stop, but along the way, there were local housewives watching Fusae and the reporters, looks of pity on their faces. The bus finally arrived and Fusae, mumbling an apology, stepped forward. The reporters made room for her, though some clucked their tongues in disapproval. She grabbed the handrail and was climbing in when several reporters tried to get on as well. Five or six passengers were already aboard, all of them staring in amazement at the crowd at what was normally a deserted bus stop in a little fishing village.

Fusae hunched over and sat down in the seat behind the driver. The reporters were all scrambling, vying to get aboard. Fusae sat there, staring at her shoes, their tips covered in mud and snow.

“Just a second here. Who do you think you are?” the bus driver growled, his voice booming over his microphone. “You can’t do interviews in the bus. You have to get permission!” The reporters all froze.

“It’s dangerous. You’d better all get out!” the driver shouted. He looked around to shove the reporters back.

“Yelling at an old lady isn’t going to help anything,” the driver added, to everyone. Fusae recognized his face in the rearview mirror. This was usually an unfriendly driver, a bit erratic in his driving, the one driver along this route she always hoped to avoid.

“Watch out now, I’m shutting the door!” The driver forced the door closed and the bus slowly pulled away.

Fusae looked back down at her shoes. It wasn’t until they reached the next bus stop that she realized she’d been crying, thankful to the driver for his kindness.

The bus left the road along the sea and headed into the city. Fusae felt as if everyone was staring at her and couldn’t bring herself to look up, but as new passengers boarded at each stop, the atmosphere inside the bus gradually changed. As they reached Katsuji’s hospital, Fusae pressed the button next to the window. “We’ll be stopping at the next stop,” said the driver curtly.

The bus slowed down. Fusae waited until it came to a complete stop before she grabbed hold of the railing and stood up. She wanted to thank the driver but didn’t have the courage, and headed toward the exit at the back.

The door hissed open. No one else was getting off. She glanced toward the driver and was stepping down when he suddenly said, “It’s not your fault. You hang in there now, y’hear?”

A stir ran through the bus for a moment after the driver’s words echoed through the sound system. Fusae didn’t know how to react. The passengers turned to look at her, standing on the steps, and she fled. She turned around, but the door closed and the bus just drove away.

It had all happened so quickly. Left behind, alone at the stop, Fusae could only stare blankly at the receding bus.

You hang in there now, y’hear?

The words echoed again in her mind, and she hastily bowed in the direction of the bus.

It’s not your fault.

She repeated the driver’s words to herself. Behind her was the hospital and going inside meant taking care of her ill-tempered husband, then back home to the crowd of reporters outside, and a night spent trembling in fear at more threatening phone calls.

“You hang in there now, y’hear?” she murmured again.

Running away won’t help anything, she thought. And no help’s on the way, no matter how much I wait. It’s no different from when they threw those rationed potatoes and I had to scramble around to pick them up. I need to be strong. I’m not going to let them make fun of me anymore. Be strong. Nobody’s going to make fun of me anymore. No way. No way am I going to let that happen.

When Yoshio awoke, he was on a makeshift bed in a hospital. He must have lost consciousness, but his mind was clear now. All he felt was pain.

Yoshio looked around him. His bed was in a hallway, not a room. He tried to sit up, but a man’s arm shot out from the bench beside him and rested on his chest. “You better lie down for a while,” the man said, but Yoshio pushed back and sat up. A nurse was scurrying away down the long hallway.

“You have a mild concussion… They’re going to put you in a ward soon,” the young man beside him said uneasily, glancing back and forth between Yoshio and the retreating nurse. This was the young man who’d helped him up after he’d hit his head, Yoshio recalled, and he was about to thank him, when another memory came and he was silent for a moment.

“You’re a friend of Keigo Masuo, aren’t you?” he said as he lowered himself from the makeshift bed. The young man’s face stiffened and he asked, more hesitantly, “What sort of… relationship do you have with Keigo?”

Yoshio looked straight at him. The young man was tall and lanky, his eyes somehow lifeless. Trying to avoid Yoshio’s wordless stare, the young man said, bowing his head, “My name’s Koki Tsuruta. I know Keigo from school.”

“If you’re his classmate, you must know where he is now, right?” Yoshio asked. He knew the boy wouldn’t answer him. He got up and set off toward the elevators.

“Wait up!” Koki’s voice followed him from behind. “Are you… that girl’s…”

Yoshio halted and turned to face Koki. He realized his jacket was lighter than before and he reached in his pocket. The wrench was gone.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” Koki pulled the wrench out of his yellow backpack.

“You saw what happened, didn’t you? The guy kicked me, too, and made me lose consciousness. I can’t just go back to Kurume like this. I couldn’t stand it. But I don’t expect you understand how I feel.”

Yoshio reached out and grabbed for the wrench from Koki. Koki hesitated for a moment. “All right,” he said. “But don’t try anything stupid, okay?” And he meekly handed over the wrench.

As I was taking Yoshino Ishibashi’s father over to the café where Keigo always hung out, I called Keigo on his cell phone. When he answered, he sounded really worked up. “Koki, is that you?” he said. “Where are you? Get over here, okay?” He went on: “Something crazy just happened to me. Guess who I ran into? The father of that girl who died on Mitsuse Pass! Y’all killed mah daughter! the guy said and tried to grab me. God, it was wild! I gave him a good kick.” Keigo’s voice was loud, and I could picture his entourage around him, egging him on.

After we left the hospital, Yoshino’s father walked beside me. I hung up the phone and said, “He’s in the usual place,” and he said “Is that right?” and nodded.