Sartore took the seat across from Maisero. Maisero had his hands folded over the table now, with his briefcase half-open at one edge of the table, half-vomiting its contents. Sartore realized, as he fidgeted to find a comfortable position in the chair, that he’d fail to find one in the straight-edged wooden furniture.

“Unfortunately, child, I have forgotten much of what we discussed the previous night. Where did you say you were from, again?”

“A small village, not—”

“Yes, yes, which village?”

“I’m not sure. It was always just—the village.”

Maisero took the empty moment to consider the words, and Sartore watched Maisero’s head thud with a frightening thought.

“Do you remember the path you took to arrive here?”

“I remember turning, once. Maybe a few times.”

Another pause for introspection.

“Do you remember why you left?”

Sartore shook his head. In fact, he thought part of him could still see a single glimpse of the village. But not his.

“In any case, if I remember accurately, you spoke of some strange incidents while we were still at the docks. Could you recount that story? Something about the sun . . .”

Now it was Sartore’s turn to pause. He leaned forward, propping his elbows against the wooden table (which were now at head-height), and stared down at the dusty square of rug in the table’s shadow.

“I remember being at the shore of a lake, behind the village. I was watching the sunset. The sun started to speak to me once the colors started changing. I didn’t understand most of it, but I remember it telling me that I—that I needed to follow it. And then it was like I woke up, and the sun was gone, and it was almost night.”

“How did the sun speak to you, child?”

“It whispered into my head.”

Maisero almost snarled at him, but the expression, and the thought that drew it, faded quickly. “And how did you stumble upon this city’s gates?”

“When I left, I walked down to the road out of the village, and remembered hearing about a city to my left. So I went.”

“And your parents allowed you to?” Maisero paused. “Where are they now?”

“I don’t know.”

And that was when the idea came. All of his desperate, miserable searching, come to an end. He could see the cover now: Alien Boy, subtitle: Compiled Adventures. It would be an overnight sensation. Perhaps people would even have the gall to find the story interesting and engaging. That would be something, wouldn’t it? Maisero almost let his joy leak into his face, but caught the smile before it hatched. All he’d have to do is follow the boy around. Take some notes, he thought. It would be the easiest sell of his life.

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Even interesting for him, maybe. See the ocean on the other side—

But that would require him to follow the boy. Ghastly business, really. No, he’d have to hire a few others to do the following for him. No time for indulgences. He’d collect their notes and write it himself, in his cozy study, the thin layer of dust growing into a soft coat of fur until the work was finished. And the fame, the glory, would return.

“You arrived at this city sometime previous to our chance encounter. What were you doing prior to that?”

“I walked up to the lake, thinking, thinking that I could find the Sun again at sunrise, but by the time I got there, there was nothing there.”

“The sun was gone?”

“No, it was there. But it wasn’t in a talking mood.”

Maisero thought the words over for a moment, then turned back to Sartore, and asked his next question tentatively:

“Where do you intend to go now, child?”

“I thought the ocean looked pretty with the sun over it . . .”

Sartore winced when he saw Maisero’s sneaky gag. It was as though Maisero had found a noseful of putrid shoreline decay.

“If you’re heart’s set on that, then, I may be able to find some work with some guidance,” Maisero said. Sartore nodded in agreement. Maisero rose, tucked his papers back into his briefcase, slung it over his shoulder, and walked down the side of the bookshelves, letting the child follow behind him. Sartore kept a few feet between him and Maisero.

Maisero skipped the first two shelves. Between them, Sartore found two men with open books in their hands, one seated at a footstool, the other standing, head pointed into the open slot from which he’d withdrawn the volume.

After turning a corner into one of the shelves, Maisero stopped and strummed his fingers against the book spines in front of him. Eventually, he picked one, slid it out and held it for Sartore to see. Sartore immediately noticed the name embossed at the bottom.

“You wrote this?” Sartore asked.

“After many years of study, child. There should be plenty for you here. Follow me.”

And you should follow him. Write a good story, a real one at that. See the water, those fields of daffodils on the other side—

Unsteady boats, scummy people, vomiting, the whole lot—

Maisero carried the book under his arm back to one of the desks, this time on the other side of the shelves. He laid down his briefcase against his chair, and waited for the child to be seated before opening the book and laying out its treasures.

The colorful pictures caught Sartore’s eyes immediately.

“There’s an important city across the ocean,” Maisero said. He flipped a few pages forward, searching for the right page. “I still remember old conversations regarding the city. It contained a large port, if memory serves me right. There were large masses of old and dusty ruins, but at the last inquiry I made, they were making preparations to rebuild some of them. They’ve regained some of their stature as of late, after spending some decades poor and useless. But their investments have appeared successful.”

Why’d you never move there in the first place? Much better place to coop up.

“There we are.” Maisero had stopped, and placed a finger over an illustration, before turning the book for Sartore to read. The child stared at the book, and seemed to carry its weight on his head, afraid to lean forward and tip over. Tentatively he scooted forward in his seat, and scanned the lines. Maisero watched with some contentment as the child’s eyes widened and narrowed.

“Is that where I’m going?” Sartore asked, eyes pleading up at Maisero.

“I believe so, child.”

And you as well.

Leave the damned child alone, take him to the docks and get him out of here before he has another opportunity to distract from your studies. And pay somebody else to follow him.

“I can bring you there,” the old man said, after some struggle to form the words properly. Sartore nearly jumped out of his chair, and landed on his feet. “Let’s go, then!”

The old man took his time, lips placed awkwardly on his face. He shut the book, enjoying the brief echo of the mass of pages collapsing softly on each other, then carried it back to its original spot in the shelves. It occurred to Sartore that few people had ever taken it out from its spot, given the excess of dust now left behind on the desk. Few other than him.

And Sartore followed Maisero to the docks.