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what I have in my jeans pockets. Which reminds me. I unfold the flyer from Steve’s postbox. I study it. There’s enough written in English to figure out it’s offering 50% off something. It’s a manga café. Open 24 hours. There are prices for hourly rates. And something else saying 24h OK! ¥2,000 slashed through and 50% off! The place is near Shibuya station. Decisions are easy when you don’t have any options.

    * * *

    I wave the flyer at the man in the shop. He seems kindly but has no idea what I’m saying. Then I remember my smartphone and I rustle up Google translate. I type in “I want the cheapest deal so I can stay here until the morning” and show him the translation. He shrugs and types in some numbers on his till, talks at me in bored polite Japanese for a little and shows me the price he’s rung up. ¥1,050. I smile and hand over the money. He gives it back. “Ato de. Ato de,” he says, shaking has hand “no”. Ato de , I say back to him, not understanding, but happy to keep the cash. I try to remember the phrase. Something that makes people refuse to take your money is worth remembering.
    I walk down a dark corridor behind the clerk. A fluorescent light tube in the ceiling flickers on and off, whirring like a cicada just before it drops dead at the end of summer. On either side are doors every few metres. I can hear TVs blaring and computer game explosions. A man with a shaving brush walks up to me, and we both have to turn side on to pass each other. At the end of the corridor is a library with manga comic books stacked from floor to ceiling. The clerk motions for me to make myself comfortable on the orange sofa in the room. Unlike the other solid doors down the corridor, this has a frosted glass door. And it’s clear this room is not a private one. I guess you get what you pay for.  
    The clerk goes back to the front desk. I call Steve’s phone. If I keep hearing his voice I can keep believing he’s alive. I listen to his whole message and leave one myself. “I’m not so good,” I say to his answer phone. “If you are still around. Call me. Better still, come and get me. I’m staying the night at that manga café in Shibuya they always advertise in your mailbox. I could do with being rescued.” I hang up. I’m exhausted. I stretch out on the sofa and grab a manga above my head. I don’t know if they have rules about not sleeping on the sofa, but I figure if I have a manga I can at least pretend I have interests other than sleep.

    * * *

    I wake up. There is someone leaning over me. Someone with a mask on. I freeze with fear. I don’t know what to do, so I stay still and look through half-closed eyes. He’s about my age. I’ve seen him before somewhere. I back up against the sofa. I reach for something, anything to defend myself with. He smells like the frozen food aisle. If they’d let me wear footwear inside this place I would at least have been wearing my boots. All I can grab is the cushion I was using as a pillow. He keeps leaning over me, looking for something under the sofa. I decide I’m ready to scream. I sit bolt upright. Our heads collide and he reels back into the corner. I sit up and pull my feet onto the sofa, hug my legs to my chest, with the pillow for added protection. My head hurts.
      It’s a man. I think. He’s standing in the corner and staring at the floor. He’s fiddling with his hands, but not looking at me. He says something in Japanese, but I can’t tell if he’s talking to me or his hands. He sounds like he’s sorry. He sits and points to a socket and waves his tablet computer at me, and makes a gesture with his finger coming down to his thumb, and points at his computer. He speaks in Japanese. It’s a calm voice. A questioning one, not an ordering one. Then he plugs his computer in.
    He bows his head in apology and smiles. I can’t help but smile back. He’s wearing a clown suit? Burgundy red and pink squares. But he has a name label on his