Oshima's fingers stay pressed to his temples. "But your father's prophecy didn't come true, did it? You didn't murder him. You were here in Takamatsu when it happened. Somebody else killed him in Tokyo."

Silently I spread my hands out in front of me and stare at them. Those hands that, in the darkness of night, had been covered with blood. "I'm not so sure of that," I tell him.

And I proceed to tell him everything. About how that night, on my way back to the hotel, I'd lost consciousness for a few hours. About waking up in the woods behind the shrine, my shirt sticky with somebody's blood. About washing the blood off in the restroom. About how several hours had been erased from my memory. To save time I don't go into how I stayed overnight at Sakura's. Oshima asks the occasional question, and files away the details in his head. But he doesn't voice any opinions.

"I have no idea how that blood got all over me, or whose blood it could be. It's a complete blank," I tell him. "But maybe I did kill my father with my own hands, not metaphorically. I really get the feeling that I did. Like you said, I was in Takamatsu that day-I definitely didn't go to Tokyo. But In dreams begin responsibilities, right?"

Oshima nods. "Yeats."

"So maybe I murdered him through a dream," I say. "Maybe I went through some special dream circuit or something and killed him."

"To you that might feel like the truth, but nobody's going to grill you about your poetic responsibilities. Certainly not the police. Nobody can be in two places at once. It's a scientific fact-Einstein and all that-and the law accepts that principle."

"But I'm not talking about science or law here."

"What you're talking about, Kafka," Oshima says, "is just a theory. A bold, surrealistic theory, to be sure, but one that belongs in a science fiction novel."

"Of course it's just a theory. I know that. I don't think anybody else is going to believe such a stupid thing. But my father always used to say that without counterevidence to refute a theory, science would never progress. A theory is a battlefield in your head-that was his pet phrase. And right now I can't think of any evidence to counter my hypothesis."

Oshima is silent. And I can't think of anything else to say.

"Anyway," Oshima finally says, "that's why you ran away to Shikoku. To escape your father's curse."

I nod, and point to the folded-up newspaper. "But it looks like there's no escape."

Distance won't solve anything, the boy named Crow says.

"Well, you definitely need a hiding place," Oshima says. "Beyond that there's not much I can say."

I suddenly realize how exhausted I am. I lean against Oshima, and he wraps his arms around me.

I push my face up against his flat chest. "Oshima, I don't want to do those things. I don't want to kill my father. Or be with my mother and sister."

"Of course you don't," he replies, running his fingers through my short hair. "How could you?"

"Not even in dreams."

"Or in a metaphor," Oshima adds. "Or in an allegory, or an analogy." He pauses and then says, "If you don't mind, I'll stay with you here tonight. I can sleep on the chair."

But I turn him down. I think I'm better off alone for a while, I tell him.

Oshima brushes the strands of hair off his forehead. After hesitating a bit he says, "I know I'm a hopeless, damaged, homosexual woman, and if that's what's bothering you…"

"No," I say, "that's not it at all. I just need some time alone to think. Too many things have happened all at once. That's all."

Oshima writes down a phone number on a memo pad. "In the middle of the night, if you feel like talking to anybody, call this number. Don't hesitate, okay? I'm a light sleeper anyway." I thank him.

That's the night I see a ghost.

The truck Nakata was riding in arrived in Kobe just after five in the morning. It was light out, but the warehouse was still closed and their freight couldn't be unloaded. They parked the truck in a broad street near the harbor and took a nap. The young driver stretched out on the back seat-his usual spot for napping-and was soon snoring away contentedly. His snores sometimes woke Nakata up, but each time he quickly dropped back into a comfortable sleep. Insomnia was one phenomenon Nakata had never experienced.

A little before eight the young driver sat up and gave a big yawn. "Hey, Gramps, ya hungry?" he asked. He was busy shaving with an electric razor, using the rearview mirror.

"Now that you mention it, yes, Nakata does feel a little hungry."

"Well, let's go grab some breakfast."

From the time they left Fujigawa to their arrival in Kobe, Nakata had spent most of the time sleeping. The young driver barely said a word the whole time, just drove on, listening to a late-night radio show. Occasionally he'd sing along to a song, none of which Nakata had ever heard before. He wondered if they were even in Japanese, since he could barely understand any of the lyrics, just the occasional word. From his bag he took out the chocolate and rice balls he'd gotten from the two young office girls in Shinjuku, and shared them.

The driver had chain-smoked, saying it helped keep him awake, so Nakata's clothes were reeking of smoke by the time they arrived in Kobe.

Bag and umbrella in hand, Nakata clambered down from the truck.

"You better leave that stuff in the truck," the driver said. "We're not going far, and we'll come right back after we eat."

"Yes, you're quite right, but Nakata feels better having them."

The young man frowned. "Whatever. It's not like I'm lugging them around. It's up to you."

"Much obliged."

"My name's Hoshino, by the way. Spelled the same as the former manager of the Chunichi Dragons. We're not related, though."

"Mr. Hoshino, is it? Very glad to meet you. My name is Nakata."

"Come on-I knew that already," Hoshino said.

He knew the neighborhood and strode off down the street, Nakata almost having to trot to keep up. They wound up in a small diner down a back street, seated among other truck drivers and stevedores from the docks. Not a single necktie in sight. All of them were intently shoveling in their breakfasts like they were filling up a gas tank. The place was filled with the clatter of dishes, the waitress yelling out orders, the morning NHK news on the TV buzzing in the corner.

Hoshino pointed to the menu taped to the wall. "Just order whatever you want, Gramps. The food's cheap here, and pretty good."

"All right," Nakata said, and did as he was told, staring at the menu until he remembered he couldn't read. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hoshino, but I'm not very bright and can't read."

"Is that right?" Hoshino said, amazed. "Can't read? That's pretty rare these days. But that's okay. I'm having the grilled fish and omelette-why don't you get the same?"

"That sounds good. Grilled fish and omelettes are some of Nakata's favorites."

"Glad to hear it."

"I enjoy eel a lot, too."

"Yeah? I like eel myself. But eel's not something you have in the morning, is it."

"That's right. And Nakata had eel last night, when Mr. Hagita bought some for me."

"Glad to hear it," Hoshino said again. "Two orders of the grilled fish set plus omelettes!" he yelled out to the waitress. "And super-size one of the rices, okay?"

"Two grilled fish sets, plus omelettes! One rice super-size!" the waitress called loudly to the cooks.

"Isn't it kind of a pain, not being able to read?" Hoshino asked.

"Yes, sometimes I have trouble because I can't read. As long as I stay in Nakano Ward in Tokyo it's not so bad, but if I go somewhere else, like now, it's very hard for me."

"I guess so. Kobe's pretty far from Nakano."

"Nakata doesn't know north and south. All I know is left and right. So I get lost, and can't buy tickets, either."