"Sometimes," I say.

"Sometimes," he repeats. "You know, if they had a contest for the world's shortest replies, you'd win hands down."

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps," Oshima says, as if fed up. "Perhaps most people in the world aren't trying to be free, Kafka. They just think they are. It's all an illusion. If they really were set free, most people would be in a real bind. You'd better remember that. People actually prefer not being free."

"Including you?"

"Yeah. I prefer being unfree, too. Up to a point. Jean-Jacques Rousseau defined civilization as when people build fences. A very perceptive observation. And it's true-all civilization is the product of a fenced-in lack of freedom. The Australian Aborigines are the exception, though. They managed to maintain a fenceless civilization until the seventeenth century. They're dyed-in-the-wool free. They go where they want, when they want, doing what they want. Their lives are a literal journey. Walkabout is a perfect metaphor for their lives. When the English came and built fences to pen in their cattle, the Aborigines couldn't fathom it. And, ignorant to the end of the principle at work, they were classified as dangerous and antisocial and were driven away, to the outback. So I want you to be careful. The people who build high, strong fences are the ones who survive the best. You deny that reality only at the risk of being driven into the wilderness yourself."

I go back to my room and lay down my backpack. Next I head to the kitchen, brew up some coffee, and take it to Miss Saeki's room. Metal tray in both hands, I carefully walk up each step, the old floorboards creaking. On the landing, I step through a rainbow of brilliant colors from the stained glass.

Miss Saeki's sitting at her desk, writing. I put down the coffee cup, and she looks up and asks me to sit down in my usual chair. Today she has on a café-au-lait-colored shirt over a black T-shirt. Her hair's pinned back, and she's wearing a pair of small pearl earrings.

She doesn't say anything for a while. She's looking over what she's just written. Nothing in her expression looks out of the ordinary. She screws on the cap of her fountain pen and lays it on top of her writing paper. She spreads her fingers, checking for ink stains. Sunday-afternoon sunlight is shining through the window. Somebody's outside in the garden, talking.

"Mr. Oshima told me you went to the gym," she says, studying my face.

"That's right," I say.

"What kind of exercise do you do there?"

"I use the machines and the free weights," I reply.

"Anything else?"

I shake my head.

"Kind of a lonely type of sport, isn't it?"

I nod.

"I imagine you want to become stronger."

"You have to be strong to survive. Especially in my case."

"Because you're all alone."

"Nobody's going to help me. At least no one has up till now. So I have to make it on my own. I have to get stronger-like a stray crow. That's why I gave myself the name Kafka. That's what Kafka means in Czech, you know-crow."

"Hmm," she says, mildly impressed. "So you're Crow."

"That's right," I say.

That's right, the boy named Crow says.

"There must be a limit to that kind of lifestyle, though," she says. "You can't use that strength as a protective wall around you. There's always going to be something stronger that can overcome your fortress. At least in principle."

"Strength itself becomes your morality."

Miss Saeki smiles. "You catch on quickly."

"The strength I'm looking for isn't the kind where you win or lose. I'm not after a wall that'll repel power coming from outside. What I want is the kind of strength to be able to absorb that outside power, to stand up to it. The strength to quietly endure things-unfairness, misfortune, sadness, mistakes, misunderstandings."

"That's got to be the most difficult strength of all to make your own."

"I know…"

Her smile deepens one degree. "You seem to know everything."

I shake my head. "That's not true. I'm only fifteen, and there're plenty of things I don't know. I should know them, but I don't. I don't know anything about you, for one thing."

She picks up the coffee cup and takes a sip. "There's nothing that you have to know, nothing inside me you need to know."

"Do you remember my theory?"

"Of course," she says. "But that's your theory, not mine. So I have no responsibility for it, right?"

"Exactly. The person who comes up with the theory is the one who has to prove it," I say. "Which leads me to a question."

"About?"

"You told me you'd published a book about people who'd been struck by lightning."

"That's right."

"Is it still available?"

She shakes her head. "They didn't print that many copies to begin with. It went out of print a long time ago, and I imagine any leftover copies were destroyed. I don't even have a copy. Like I said before, nobody was interested."

"Why were you interested in that topic?"

"I'm not sure. I guess there was something symbolic about it. Or maybe I just wanted to keep myself busy, so I set a goal that kept me running around and my mind occupied. I can't recall now what the original motivation was. I came up with the idea and just started researching it. I was a writer then, with no money worries and plenty of free time, so I could mostly do whatever sparked my interest. Once I got into it, though, the topic itself was fascinating. Meeting all kinds of people, hearing all kinds of stories. If it weren't for that project, I probably would've withdrawn even further from reality and ended up completely isolated."

"When my father was young he worked as a caddy at a golf course and was hit by lightning. He was lucky to survive. The guy with him didn't make it."

"A lot of people are killed by lightning on golf courses-big, wide-open spaces, with almost nowhere to take shelter. And lightning loves golf clubs. Is your father also named Tamura?"

"Yes, and I think he was about your age."

She shakes her head. "I don't remember anybody named Tamura. I didn't interview anybody by that name."

I don't say anything.

"That's part of your theory, isn't it? That your father and I met while I was researching the book, and as a result you were born."

"Yes."

"Well, that puts an end to it, doesn't it? That never happened. Your theory doesn't stand up."

"Not necessarily," I say.

"What do you mean?"

"Because I don't believe everything you're telling me."

"Why not?"

"Well, you immediately said you'd never interviewed anybody called Tamura without even giving it any thought. Twenty years is a long time, and you must've interviewed quite a number of people. I don't think you'd be able to recall so quickly whether one of them was or wasn't named Tamura."

She shakes her head and takes another sip of coffee. A faint smile springs to her lips. "Kafka, I-" She stops, looking for the right words.

I wait for her to find them.

"I feel like things are starting to change around me," she says.

"How so?"

"I can't really say, but something's happening. The air pressure, the way sounds reverberate, the reflection of light, how bodies move and time passes-it's all transforming, bit by bit. It's like each small change is a drop that's steadily building up into a stream." She picks up her black Mont Blanc pen, looks at it, puts it back where it was, then looks straight at me. "What happened between us in your room last night is probably part of that flow. I don't know if what we did last night was right or not. But at the time I decided not to force myself to judge anything. If the flow is there, I figured I'd just let it carry me along where it wanted."

"Can I tell you what I think?"

"Go right ahead."

"I think you're trying to make up for lost time."