"Where the fuck are you?"

Sounds like he's in the truck. "Uh, where are you?"

"What?"

My head jerks away from the phone.

"What do you mean, where am I? I asked you a question. I got a message from Pendergrast that you didn't show for your final today. Where are you?"

"There was, uh . . . there was something I had to do."

"Wh-what do you m-mean?" He's probably spitting all over the phone. "You get your ass home now."

"I can't."

"What?"

How long has it been since I openly disobeyed him? "I, uh, can't come home right now. Listen, Dad -"

"No, you listen. If you don't get your ass home right now, you're gonna wish -"

"Dad, I left you a note. On the table. Read it, but, uh, I needed to, uh, take a trip. But don't worry. I'll be home in a few days, a week at most."

"You w-what? Trip? What the hell do you mean you had to . . . ?"

Car horns. He swears. I can hear his blinker. He's probably getting to the side of the road.

"Where the hell are you?" I can hear it, the second it hits him. "And where's the goddamn money?"

"I needed to do something, for T.J. I . . . I went through his stuff."

Gulping breaths and I can practically hear the sound of his veins popping out all over. His jaw working against the phone as he grinds his teeth. "I told you -"

"Dad, he's gone. He's not coming back. And there's this one thing I can do for him. So I'm doing it."

He sucks in air, furious and harsh. "You get your ass home!"

"No." There's a calm in it. One I don't feel, yet, but one I can see, in front of me. I've rehearsed this call in my head, over and over, and while it went a dozen different ways in my rehearsals, I knew we'd get to this part. "I have to do this. Just . . . if you just let me do this, for T.J., I'll come home and you can yell or whatever then."

I can hear the battle on the other end of the phone. I close my eyes and swallow the fear.

"What is it you think you're doing?"

"I'll tell you when I get back."

His grinding teeth chill me. Despite the slick of sweat all over me and the heat of the sun broiling through the windshield, I'm shivering.

He could probably stop me. I'm only seventeen, and he could call the police and make them find me. There's no way he could figure out where I'm going, unless the police can trace my cell, like on TV, or Shauna cracks wide open. But I'm banking on his ego to make him wait until I'm home, to deal with me then, himself. No witnesses.

"Dad, I have to do this." I hate how I sound, like I'm begging. I owe it to T.J. to do this right. I clear my throat. "Read my note. But right now, I have to go. I'll call you. I promise. A week at most, but . . . I need to do this. For T.J."

I wait a few seconds to see if he'll respond, and then I close my phone. I haven't even pulled out of the space yet when it rings again. I ignore it. He calls two more times before he gives up. I don't think he'll send anyone after me or call the cops or anything, but I can only shudder at what he'll be like when I get home.

Crossing into Indiana, and then for all the miles dancing along the Michigan border, I think about all the places T.J. will never get to go, and all the places he went I'll never know about. And I think about what would have happened if I had chickened out and not gone through his stuff.

Just before the Illinois border, I stop for gas - hopefully, my last refill before Madison.

In the gas station, I get another soda and some chips and, on impulse, a pack of gum from a bin by the counter. The price tag on the side is bright pink, slapped on by one of those handheld roller things, one edge still sticking up. There's a place at home that still does the price stickers by hand, too. Even the gum and candy. I thought they were the last people on earth who did that. I smooth the sticker down so it wraps over the edge of the pack while I wait in line. Almost there.

Back in the car, I fold the map open on the seat so I can look at it if I get confused.

Just as I cross into Wisconsin, my phone beeps at me. Text. Has to be Shauna. Busted but ok - call when u get there.

Almost there. By this time tomorrow, I'll know everything.

WHEN I CALLED FOR DIRECTIONS, THE GIRL ON THE PHONE said, "Look for the palm trees." In Wisconsin? I should have asked more questions, but she didn't really give me a chance, and I didn't want to call back.

I circle around again, and once again face a one-way street heading in the wrong direction. I've been round and round these streets and still have no idea where I am, or where I should be.

Some more lefts, another right, and I'm thinking of sleeping in the car. But there, twinkling lights, and lo and behold: palm trees. Green, plastic, twinkling-green-light-outlined fake palm trees. An illegal U-turn and I'm here, and wondering how I could have missed it the first eighty-seven times around this block.

At first I don't see anyone inside, but when I open the door, a bell jingles and a woman pops up from behind the counter.

"Hey. You made it! Assuming you're Matt. Are you Matt?"

The woman is out of some kind of time warp, or maybe one of those trippy movies. Tall and thin, long neck, pale-pale skin, and no makeup, save the blue glittery teardrop painted on her cheek, just below her right eye. Ring through her left eyebrow, and a speck of diamond in her nose. Flowy white blouse with flowers and butterflies along the neck. And a necklace that hugs her throat in a ripple of tiny, shiny beads. The overall effect is pretty, and earthy, and almost childish. But then there's the hair: long, clumped, and deadened dreads, tangled and tied to hang down the center of her back in a dirty-blond bunch. Just weird enough for me to know I am so not in Kansas anymore - or Pennsylvania, for that matter.

"I'm Maya." The accent, flat and nasal, is almost comical, and just all wrong.

"Uh, hi, yeah. Sorry about the calls and being late and all."

"No prob. You made it, didn't you?" Definitely weird. "But listen, can I get you checked in and show you where to go? Because I do need to close up for the night."

"Oh, yeah, sure." You betcha. I drop my stuff next to the desk and dig through my backpack for my stash of cash.

I find out during the surprisingly quick check-in that she's a grad student and has lived in Madison "for-ever," so I should feel free to ask about places to go, restaurants, cooperatives, community involvement opportunities, if I want to "give back" while I'm here. That last bit, the giving back, she punctuates with a huge, hopeful smile. I nod and smile and mumble something I hope sounds positive and uninterested all at the same time. I am here on a mission, with no time for anything else.

She barely looks at my ID. I count out the money for my room, relieved they still had my single left even with my almost-too-late arrival. I'm not sure I could sleep in a room with a bunch of strangers.

When she's done with the check-in, she sort of dances out from behind the counter. I pick up my stuff and start to follow, but Maya twirls to a stop just past the desk. I shift my stuff, waiting, but she just stands there with a stupid look on her face - kinda like a smile, but without her top lip showing. Is this some kind of joke? What the hell?

She just stands there, smiling that odd, annoying sorta smile.

"What?" I ask.

She tips her head toward a sign on the wall just before the hallway. WE ARE A SAFE AND SHOELESS ENVIRONMENT . . . WTF? "Huh?"

"We are a shoeless environment. So . . ." She looks down at my feet, her face comical and expectant.

"Oh, uh, right." I toe off my shoes, then shuffle everything so I can pick them up. "Socks OK?"

"Yup. Good, then," she says, turning on her heel and heading off. I have to race to catch up. "We'll get you all settled, and then I have to skee-daddle."

She is skipping. Down a long hallway, around a corner, and through an open area.

"Common area, communal kitchen, TV and computer room there. There's Internet service, but it's su-low."

Another short hall. I look around, try to take in as much as I can without dropping everything I'm carrying. She's still talking, now about food. My stomach growls.

". . . from the place next door. But they have veggie entrees, too, and they're actually really good. And there's plenty of vegan and even raw-foods places around, if you prefer. Oh, and the co-op has the best vegan peanut-butter cookies."

Except for the peanut-butter cookies, it doesn't sound too good. And how good could vegan cookies be?

"Coed dorms, divided dorms, a few other singles and doubles, bathroom." She points out spaces and places in a blurring cadence timed to her skippy-trippy feet. "If you change your mind about the single, we can switch you to a dorm room tomorrow," she says, like it would be a good thing. Would save me some money, but I don't think so.

Through a door and down a short three-step jump. I miss the last step and shuffle myself and my stuff to keep my balance.

Maya calls out some greetings and introductions as we go. A guy named Lyle, with no hair and at least three rings through his lip, says, "Was-sup," and then goes back to strumming a guitar. It's missing a string. A guy I think she calls Kack merely grunts as he slides past us on his way out. A young couple with gross-smelling takeout containers smile and bob in unison and slip back into their room. I'm so not hungry anymore. A couple of pretty blond girls, not from around here either, I'd guess, but on their way out and dressed to party. An old couple, wearing identical sweatshirts from some state park. Huh.

"We're almost full, but a lot of people are out. You'll see more people around tomorrow. We're almost there. Your room is actually on the main floor. You just can't get to it from the front area."

That is not at all surprising.

We pass another dorm room, and I decide no amount of savings will tempt me to sleep there. No freaking way. Too full of strangers. And strangers who are too strange. And who reek. Three guys and a girl. Smile. Wave. Seem nice, but . . . man. I hold my breath for a couple of doors.

In the last room at the end of the hall, a girl is leaning against the door frame, laughing into the room, where music is playing. She sips from a bottle of something in her hand and turns to smile over the lip at us when she sees us coming.

"Hi, Maya," she says, all the while watching me.

"Hey, Harley, this is Matt. He's in town to . . ." Maya turns to me, head tilted, forcing me to get another whiff of her very smelly hair. "I didn't get around to asking what you were here in town for, did I?"

"Uh, no," I stumble, caught unprepared for questions. "Just, uh, visiting."

"U-Dub? Friends?" Harley asks, but her eyes twinkle, and I think she's mocking me.

I have no idea what the first part means, but "friends" I'll take. Good cover. "Yeah. Friends," I answer, not bothering to be more specific.

Her mouth turns up in a heart-shaped smile. She narrows her eyes, like she's trying to figure me out, and runs the tip of her tongue around the edge of the bottle. I have the sudden urge to tug at the collar of my sweatshirt. It's choking me. But with the backpack and duffel and shoes and all, I can only crane my neck, trying to get it loose.

"Well, nice to meet you, Matt. If you need anyone to show you around, or . . . anything, let me know. I'll be here," she says with a wave of her hand. Then a wink.

Before I can respond, Maya pushes me on, but I can totally feel Harley watching me all the way down the hall. I look back. She tilts her head. Smiles. I stumble, hit the wall, and drop all my stuff. Harley's laughter is definitely at me, and not nice, and yet I can't help but look back again. She pivots back into the room with a toss of her hair.

At the bottom of the stairs leading down to my room, Maya turns unexpectedly and I almost run into her. She waves me into the room.

"Bathroom just at the top of the stairs. Let me see - what else do I need to tell you . . . ?"

She dives back into the spiel she's been running through in between distractions and introductions. Too much information all at once, about house rules and community space and safe environments and lockout times, and eventually she just hands me a bunch of papers.

"You'll be fine. Stu will be here in the morning. He's been around for-ev-er."

Guess that's longer than Maya.

"He'll be able to answer any other questions, and whatever. You got what you need for tonight? Great."

Maya disappears in a swirl of skirts, leaving me alone in the spartan room. Door closed and locked, I sit down on the unmade bed and swallow the sudden realization that I am actually here, with no more than a few days to find Celia and Zoe, and deliver T.J.'s letter.

A WHOLE DAY AND NOTHING TO SHOW FOR IT. TECHNICALLY more, if you count the drive and last night.

In my head - at home, all the way here, even last night, before I fell asleep - I had it all worked out.

Get up early, go to the address on the envelopes, look around. Wait. Celia would come out and go to work, maybe with Zoe in tow. I know from the letters that she takes the bus. I figured I'd catch a good look in the morning. Follow the bus to see where Zoe goes to day care, then on to the library where Celia works. Maybe hang around, see her go to lunch or run errands, then maybe on to some of the other places, like the playground or the ice-cream place. All in plenty of time to position myself back on their block to see them come home again. I thought maybe I'd even be able to hear Celia talk to a neighbor, maybe watch Zoe play on the front lawn. Piece of cake. Just watch and wait.

I hoped, maybe, I'd get lucky. Maybe Celia would come home early, like she said in some of her letters, take Zoe to the park. In some of my better fantasies of how this could go, I imagined that Celia would recognize me and she'd know who I was. And I wouldn't have to tell her anything. She'd just know.

Instead, I spent all day stalking them without a single sighting.

It sure doesn't help that I can't drive within two blocks of their house. The whole damn street's torn up, equipment everywhere, piles of pavement and dirt. This morning there were men there working, but this afternoon they're gone, leaving all the piles and equipment vacant. I parked the car three blocks over, near the lake - close as I could get - and walked down.

There's a river that flows parallel to the street, emptying into, or maybe flowing from, the lake. I'm not sure which. I parked myself there, across from their house, next to a big tree, and I watched until pretty much everyone else on the block had come home. Still no Celia or Zoe.

One of the neighbors kept coming outside to sweep her front walk. I leaned against a tree, trying to blend in, staring at the big dirt-mover thing next to me, anything to hide what I was really doing there. But she was obviously watching me watch the house. I left before she could call the cops or something. Back in the car I had to admit - my plan sucked.

I drop my backpack and shoes and fall back onto the bed in my room. I owe Shauna a call, but I just lie there for a few minutes, gathering my courage.

She's in the middle of something when she answers. I can hear her moving around, and she's only tossing me halfhearted responses. Finally, there's the soft click of a door closing and I have her full attention.

The frustration of the day lets loose. When I come up for air, she laughs, but not like she thinks it's at all funny.

"So it's not as easy as you thought." There's more than a little I-told-you-so there. "To be honest, I always thought it was insane to basically stalk the woman and then think she'd invite you in."

Shuffling paper. Sounds. But she's not talking. She should be giving me a hard time, reminding me I should have brought her with me. But all I'm getting is her you're-so-stupid sighs. I've seen her do this over and over - it's just not usually directed at me.

"You still opposed to calling her on the phone?" she asks.

"No way." I suck on the phone. Obviously.

"Okaaayyy. So, if stalking her isn't working, and the phone is out, then it's probably time to go to the library where she works. Right?"

I push my chin into my chest, bite the inside of my lip.

"Come on, Matt." She laughs, at me. "You know that's what you're going to have to do, unless you're going to just mail T.J.'s letter to her. This isn't rocket science."

I guess I deserve the attitude. But it's not helping me want to go to that library, where I don't belong.

"Well?"

"I'm not sure I can get in if I'm not a student." Visions of being detained by university cops for trespassing play through my head.