# Chapter 2
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Morning sun crept through the broken windows of the cafeteria. Ashes and dust, everywhere. To the far right were the ruins of a counter and a menu sign; behind that, a glimpse of a kitchen. Polly sat at a table, arms crossed as she slouched on her seat---to her dismay, still naked. The soup before her wasn't appealing in the slightest, might as well have been raw sewage.

"Why should I trust you?" she asked Mystery, who sat opposite to her.

"Honey, doctors don't kill, they cure. I want you to get some fuel." His rusty spoon clinked against the porcelain before bringing breakfast to his mouth. No matter what they did, or where they were, he had a permanent smile she craved to scrub off. "How are you gonna have any fun if you're low on gas? Besides, even if I wanted to, I could do it in so many other ways that would actually be fun. Poisoning is *not* one of them. Maybe if you were older, or a---"

Her loud-growling stomach funneled their attention.

"Your next meal's gonna be at dinner, you know? I'd get to it if I were you."

"Fine," she grumbled. A spoonful of it brought a bland taste; a hint of rot, but nothing offensive. No idea on what was inside, but this was her best-case scenario.

"What do you think?"

" ... It's fine."

"Good."

Polly drank straight from the bowl, to make it quick. One gulp. There were two hallways nearby: in front of her, and behind.

"What do we say when people do nice things?" No response; he banged the table. "You have to be grateful. Say thank you."

"Thank you."

"Good. Please remember to do it next time."

Another gulp, this time with chunks of chicken. These bowls looked thin---and fragile.

"I've been treating you like a princess. It's only fair I get treated with respect, don't you think?"

"Mhm."

"You don't 'mhm' me. Say yes."

"Yes."

"Good girl."

Another gulp. Mystery looked awfully distracted with his food: every time he dipped his spoon, it tugged his face along; his focus dipped too, as if the girl he kidnapped stopped existing for a second. He lifted his face when the spoon lifted.

"You know, you're cute. I mean, really pretty and cute. Don't spoil that with your bad behavior."

"Yes."

Another gulp. This bit of the soup was much hotter than before---almost burning the tongue.

She stopped eating; what remained was enough to wash someone's face; then nudged her chair to the side, sticking a leg outwards.

His face lowered at his food again. Clink, clink. She pretended to take another swig of her bowl, winding it up in the air instead. Clack. Porcelain shattered on his forehead. Soup splashed all over him. Polly jumped out of her seat and shot into the hallway behind, bursting into a nervous cackle. Then came the sound of his chair scraping the floor, his angered screams---his feet stomping towards her.

"You little shit, I'm gonna snap your fucking neck!" His voice shook the walls.

Debris on the floor crushed under each step. A sharp turn down another hallway. Cluttered walls zoomed past her; a blur of bright red, green and yellow stripes amidst all the gray. Suffocating, musty air. Tears threatened to burst. Another sharp turn. His footsteps became louder, so did his growling.

Her head shook left and right. A door to a room was ajar. She shut herself in and leaned back on the door, panting as low as possible. With time, her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Huge, black trashbags piled on the floor, shelves filled with jars and boxes. Bubbles and dark splotches of mold on the ceiling; one corner dripped water into an orange pool under bags. Ashes sprinkled over everything. Even mustier air. Right ahead was a small window, high on the wall, lighting the room with sunlight.

"You know, hide-and-seek is nice and all, but you know what I really wanna do?" His pace slowed down, by the crackling sounds. "Once I find you, I'd really like to bash your tiny head."

Polly detached from the door and, as quiet as she could, climbed up the soggy bags. Out the window was a narrow alley, leading to an empty street.

"But, I'm really not one to mistreat a pretty girl like you, so we can make a deal. If you come out of hiding now, we can forget about all this, say our sorries and go back to doing what we were supposed to. Do we have a deal?"

With the nearest jar, she smashed the metal lid into the window---again and again---until it shattered. The jar also broke; its foul soup poured down, almost sticking to her feathers. Glass shards scratched her hand. The window frame was a mess; she mounted on it.

"Never fucking mind, I know where you're going!"

As soon as he opened the door, Polly sprung out the window. Screaming the whole time, she fell on her feet and bounced back into a run. No looking back. A right turn. No footsteps other than hers in the air. After a few miles, she ran out of breath. Behind the pounding in her ears, she heard Mystery throw a tantrum: kicking, screaming and cursing, breaking glass.

She was lucky he gave up so quick---but this was no time to stop. The girl trotted further, ignoring the aching, bruised soles of her feet. The sidewalk was littered, cracked into smaller blocks of concrete, muddy. Roll-up doors guarded each establishment, host to countless graffitti. Every building had its own sign: clothing stores, bars, dentists, lawyers, pharmacies, tattoos. A handful of passersby frowned at her, but none stopped to even look closer. The monochrome landscape went from unfamiliar to uncomfortable.

At one point, she found a clothesline between two houses, where a couple of plain white towels hung. She could only grab one, which she wrapped around her waist. It still felt strange, being naked in public; the towel wasn't the best cover, but good enough. Spying the line of look-alike houses and their poor lawns before her, an idea brewed.

Knock knock. Polly waited, and waited, but no one responded; she knocked again. Still, nothing. She tried the next house. Knock knock. No response---not on this one, or the next, or the next. The twentieth house Polly knocked on did respond: from the top-floor balcony, a teenaged cat emerged. "Who the hell are you?" she said.

"Uh, hi! I'm Polly, I was wondering if you could help me get back home, 'cause I lost my mom, and ...."

Her face scrunched up. "Dad? Can you come here?"

A pot-bellied bear stomped over to her, clutching a bottle of beer in one hand. He gave the same sneer. "You're not a witness."

"I'm Polly, I need help to---"

"Yeah, I'm out of spare change. Outta here, I've had enough of you little shits ringing my bell." He walked off with the cat girl.

Polly felt immediate tears threaten to come out, but sucked them up and tried the next house; she gave the door a knock.

The couch creaked inside, then the door opened to reveal a tiger; the whites of his eyes were redder than expected. "Are you from that uh ...?"

"Hi, I'm Polly. I got lost and---"

"Lost?" He raised a brow.

"Yeah, lost. I need to find my mom or my house as soon as possible. Can you help me get to Braidenville?"

He brought two fingers to, absent-mindedly, pinch and knead the feathers of her chest. "*Uh,* sure. What do I get in return?"

" ... I can get my mom to bake you some cake, she's pretty good at it."

"Dude. Can she make pizza?"

"I don't think so."

"Is she as hot as you?" His paw groped her flat breast, which made Polly flinch and back away.

"Stop, stop it, please. This is serious, I---"

"Kiddo, I'm high as all fuck." He chuckled. "I don't know *what* in the fuck you is, but if you let me get a piece, I'll help you with ... going home, or whatever."

"Get a piece?"

"Yeah, like," he crouched to whisper in her ear, "how old are you?"

"Eight?"

"Eighteen? Eh, old enough. Come in."

With a sigh, she entered the house. Pizza boxes everywhere, TV tuned to a sports channel, grease-stained couch on a floor filled with crumbs. Then, right in front of her, he unzipped his jeans.

One favor later, she was kicked out. The door slammed shut in front of her, then locked twice. Her scowl was wet with sticky, yellowish fluid, some of it on her eyelid; she wiped it off with a thumb, licking afterwards. Despite her bad luck, she kept moving, trying house after house only to be met with either silence, indifference, or downright spite.
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The bus stopped at a public square; Montgomery Square, judging by the blue sign. Its doors opened to let passengers leave, as they did. Polly, however, left from the rear bumper she stood on, wearing the most mischievous grin---the thrill of getting that free ride stuck with her. Further into the square, trees hid the struggling grass from the midday sun; these patches of green-gray divided the tiled pathways. Right ahead, above all the walking heads of businessmen, giant letters announced the---equally gigantic---Montgomery Evangelical Church. No sound came from it, let alone any people; pretty strange for a Sunday. In a clearing, old people gathered on checkered tables and concrete benches; talking, laughing. One thing Polly knew about old people: they were often experts on how to get places.

She approached a grizzly man who sat on a bench, fiddling with a pen and newspaper. "Hey, I'm Polly. I was wondering if you could help me find my mom. I got lost yesterday."

"Wha?" He looked up from his paper. "What ya say?"

"I'm Polly, I was wondering if you could help me get back home."

"Get back home? Oh, sure, darling." Shaky hands set the paper and pen on the bench, returning to his lap afterwards. "You one of those---whaddya call them---commune fellows?"

"No, I don't even know what that is. But I live in Braidenville, which is another city."

"Braidenville? Heh, I haven't heard that name in years. I had a friend from there. Have you seen, err, the Wilsons there lately?"

"Yeah, one of them is my teacher."

"Al's your teacher? Oh, wonderful. He always had a knack for it."

"If you want, you can take me there and visit him again."

"Oh, but I cannot. They don't want me around. My daughter wouldn't let me, anyway. My daughter, she's a tough worker; I once caught her working her papers at a funeral." He laughed. "I, crying and all, just look to the side and see her hunched over with a clipboard and pen, all frantic. Not even looking at the poor man in the casket!"

For the next thirty-or-so minutes, the grizzly kept rambling about things he and his daughter had done, with Polly responding with hums and nods---really just bored out of her mind. She scattered the moment he started a rant on airplane models. Sadly, further attempts with the elders resulted in similar conversations.

Next on the list of people to try asking: the homeless. Even though the businessmen would've been the better option, none of them could unglue from their phones and phonecalls. Polly was sure these knew how to get around town; maybe more than the elders. The square was filled with them and their classic stink. A duo---one possum, one terrier dog---basked under the shade of a tree, laid on purple blankets surrounded by bags.

"Hi, I'm Polly," she kneeled beside them, "I was wondering if you could help me get to Braidenville. I got lost yesterday, and I've been on the streets since."

"Where'd your clothes go then?" The possum swirled his beer before drinking it.

"It's a long story, don't wanna---"

"Aw, come on, no shame in saying you got abused. Happens to every hobo."

"No, I'm not a hobo. At this point, I just need directions to leave this city and go to Braidenville."

"Braidenville? Fuck if I know." The possum took a final swig from his beer, pouring the rest on the roots of the tree. "Ay, Bone," he gestured at a nearby friend, who was boiling water with a weird tin can, "you know the way to Braidenville?"

"Naw, don't even know what that is," he responded. His terrier mustache clung to his lips. "If it's near north, I could tell you how to reach their fancy mall."

"No, it's more south," Polly said. "If I can find the bus stop at the edge I'll be good."

"I was south side, but I'unno about any bus stops you're talking." The possum packed a gray blanket into his backpack, along with a canteen. "You want any water, you get it from Bone."

"There's only enough for me, dude," Bone said.

"Just give the poor girl some."

"No, you don't have to worry, I can get it on my own." Polly stood up from the blanket, then wandered off. "Thanks for the help."

"Aight, girl. Good luck!"

With a turn to the left and a mile, she reached Cliff Avenue. Here, banks, restaurants, office buildings and street vendors thrived; always crowded, no matter the day of the week---or so she heard. Polly walked further down the avenue. Besides bothering random strangers, her only option now was to ask police.