But after coming to live in this hiding place, she dreamed every night. And these were clear, realistic dreams. She would be dreaming and wake up in the middle of a dream, unable to distinguish whether she was in the real world or the dream world. Aomame couldn’t remember ever having had this experience before. She would look over at the digital clock beside her bed. The numbers would say 1:15, 2:37, or 4:07. She would close her eyes and try to fall asleep again, but it wasn’t easy. The two different worlds were silently at odds within her, fighting over her consciousness, like the mouth of a river where the seawater and the fresh water flow in.

Not much I can do about it, she told herself. I’m not even sure if this world with two moons in the sky is the real reality or not. So it shouldn’t be so strange, should it? That in a world like this, if I fall asleep and dream, I find it hard to distinguish dream from reality? And let’s not forget that I’ve killed a few men with my own hands. I’m being chased by fanatics who aren’t about to give up, and I’m hiding out. How could I not be tense, and afraid? I can still feel the sensation, in my hands, of having murdered somebody. Maybe I’ll never be able to sleep soundly the rest of my life. Maybe that’s the responsibility I have to bear, the price I have to pay.

The dreams she had—at least the ones she could recall—fell into three set categories.

The first was a dream about thunder. She is in a dark room, with thunder roaring continuously. But there is no lightning, just like the night she murdered Leader. There is something in the room. Aomame is lying in bed, naked, and something is wandering about around her, slowly, deliberately. The carpet is thick, and the air lies heavy and still. The windowpane rattles slightly in the thunder. She is afraid. She doesn’t know what is there in the room. It might be a person. Maybe it’s an animal. Maybe it’s neither one. Finally, though, whatever it is leaves the room. Not through the door, nor by the window. But still its presence fades away until it has completely disappeared. She is alone now in the room.

She fumbles for the light near her bed. She gets out of bed, still naked, and looks around the room. There is a hole in the wall opposite her bed, a hole big enough for one person to barely make it through. The hole isn’t in a set spot. It changes shape and moves around. It shakes, it moves, it grows bigger, it shrinks—as if it’s alive. Something left through that hole. She stares into the hole. It seems to be connected to something else, but it’s too dark inside to see, a darkness so thick that it’s as if you could cut it out and hold it in your hand. She is curious, but at the same time afraid. Her heart pounds, a cold, distant beat. The dream ends there.

The second dream took place on the shoulder of the Metropolitan Expressway. And here, too, she is totally nude. Caught in the traffic jam, people leer at her from their cars, shamelessly ogling her naked body. Most are men, but there are a few women, too. The people are staring at her less-than-ample breasts and her pubic hair and the strange way it grows, all of them evaluating her body. Some are frowning, some smiling wryly, others yawning. Others are staring intently at her, their faces blank. She wants to cover herself up—at least her breasts and groin, if she can. A scrap of cloth would do the trick, or a sheet of newspaper. But there is nothing around her she can pick up. And for some reason (she has no idea why) she can’t move her arms. From time to time the wind blows, stimulating her nipples, rustling her pubic hair.

On top of this—as if things couldn’t get any worse—it feels like she is about to get her period. Her back feels dull and heavy, her abdomen hot. What should she do if, in front of all these people, she starts bleeding?

Just then the driver’s-side door of a silver Mercedes coupe opens and a very refined middle-aged woman steps out. She’s wearing bright-colored high heels, sunglasses, and silver earrings. She’s slim, about the same height as Aomame. She wends her way through the backed-up cars, and when she comes over she takes off her coat and puts it on Aomame. It’s an eggshell-colored spring coat that comes down to her knees. It’s light as a feather. It’s simple, but obviously expensive. The coat fits her perfectly, like it was made for her. The woman buttons it up for her, all the way to the top.

“I don’t know when I can return it to you. I’m afraid I might bleed on it,” Aomame says.

Without a word, the woman shakes her head, then weaves her way back through the cars to the Mercedes coupe. From the driver’s side it looks like she lifts her hand in a small wave to Aomame, but it may be an illusion. Wrapped in the light, soft spring coat, Aomame knows she is protected. Her body is no longer exposed to anyone’s view. And right then, as if it could barely wait, a line of blood drips down her thigh. Hot, thick, heavy blood. But as she looks at it she realizes it isn’t blood. It’s colorless.

The third dream was hard to put into words. It was a rambling, incoherent dream without any setting. All that was there was a feeling of being in motion. Aomame was ceaselessly moving through time and space. It didn’t matter when or where this was. All that mattered was this movement. Everything was fluid, and a specific meaning was born of that fluidity. But as she gave herself up to it, she found her body growing transparent. She could see through her hands to the other side. Her bones, organs, and womb became visible. At this rate she might very well no longer exist. After she could no longer see herself, Aomame wondered what could possibly come then. She had no answer.

At two p.m. the phone rang and Aomame, dozing on the sofa, leapt to her feet. “Is everything going okay?” Tamaru asked.

“Yes, fine,” Aomame replied.

“How about the NHK fee collector?”

“I haven’t seen him at all. Maybe he was just threatening me, saying he would be back.”

“Could be,” Tamaru said. “We set it up so the NHK subscription fee is automatically paid from a bank account, and an up-to-date sticker is on the door. Any fee collector would be bound to see it. We called NHK and they said the same thing. It must be some kind of clerical error.”

“I just hope I don’t have to deal with him.”

“Yes, we need to avoid any kind of attention. And I don’t like it when there are mistakes.”

“But the world is full of mistakes.”

“The world can be that way, but I have my own way of doing things,” Tamaru said. “If there is anything that bothers you—anything at all—make sure you get in touch.”

“Is there anything new with Sakigake?”

“Everything has been quiet. I imagine something is going on below the surface, but we can’t tell from the outside.”

“I heard you had an informant within the organization.”

“We’ve gotten some reports, but they’re focused on details, not the big picture. It does seem as if they are tightening up control of the faith. The faucet has been shut.”

“But they are definitely still after me.”

“Since Leader’s death, there has clearly been a large gap left in the organization. They haven’t decided yet who is going to succeed him, or what sort of policies Sakigake should take. But when it comes to pursuing you, opinion is unwavering and unanimous. Those are the facts we have been able to find out.”

“Not very heartwarming facts, are they.”

“Well, with facts what’s important is their weight and accuracy. Warmth is secondary.”

“Any way,” Aomame said, “if they capture me and the truth comes to light, that will be a problem for you as well.”

“That is why we want to get you to a place they can’t reach, as soon as we can.”