# Chapter 3
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"Hi, I'm Polly. I lost my mom and someone kidnapped me yesterday. I need to go back to Braidenville. Can you help?"

The police officer whipped her hair back and stirred her coffee, sluggishly. It was either her eyebags or the sagging boobs that intimidated Polly the most. "The ... the thing is that way, miss," she said, pointing to the archway on the right with a limp, flabby arm.

"Okay, thank you Mr. ... err," she squinted towards the name tag on her lowest pec, "Mrs. Carmen."

Polly walked into a white room, full of cubicles and blue-suited men. Half of them seemed to be moving like they had firewood in their shoes, darting left and right, crumpling papers, swearing and yelling. The other half either slept, chit-chatted with others or slobbered on boxes of pastries; Polly could smell them.

One husky was heading out with a clipboard until he caught wind of her. "Who are---What are you doing here, miss?"

"Um, I need help to go back to Braidenville. I lost my mom and I got kidnapped and---"

"Wait, Braidenville?" His eyes lit up.

"Yeah, where I live. That, or I want to let my mom know where I am."

He skimmed through the papers on his board. The way his ears perked up, he found something interesting. "So you are the daughter of Millie Hunter Thomas?"

"No? I know my mom's name is Sprinkles. Harrington."

"Sprinkles? You sure?" He took another scan through the papers. "Sounds like a nickname."

"That's the name my mom told me."

"You know what, just come to my desk and we'll figure this out."

She smiled. "Thank you."

Passing through the herds of panicked detectives, they reached a cubicle isolated from most others. Polly pulled a black swivel chair from a neighbor and sat next to the husky. His desk was clean, with only a computer and a cup of pens. He turned on the monitor to reveal some person-finding program.

"So, your mother's name is Sprinkles Harrington."

"Yeah."

He typed in the name and let the computer load. No results. "I don't think her name is Sprinkles. I'll try just Harrington." A couple hundred results sprung up, each with a picture of the person they refer to. "Tell me when you see her."

A couple scrolls down and she pointed to a white ferret. The odd-colored bits on her pink hair looked like sprinkles on a cupcake. "That one."

"Isabeau Harrington Baker. Just turned thirty, lives in Braidenville with her wife Melanie and daughter Polly." He turned to her with a cheeky smirk.

"That's her, that's her! Wait, what kind of name is Isabeau?"

A greyhound stomped over to their cubicle, with his face scrunched up in fury. "Devon!"

"Yes sir?" The husky recoiled.

"I tell you to hurry on that Selene case, and you slack off. Where are the papers?"

"I was about to check with Chris if---"

"I don't want to hear it. You're excuse after excuse. These are celebrities, for Christ's sake! If I don't see them by the end of today, you're over."

"Yes, sir."

"And get that hobo chicken outta here, it freaks me out." He stomped off.

Devon turned to Polly and sighed. "You heard him. You can come back tomorrow, if you like."

"Oh ... okay then." She stood up with a frown. "Thank you for hearing me, at least."

Outside the building and into Cliff Avenue, the sunset lit the upper half of skyscrapers with a warm glow.
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Fluorescent tubes painted the hallway with a fading, greenish light, even flickering at random. Posters, adverts, PSAs and metro information covered the walls; everything they tried to say merged into eye-noise. The smells of bleach and pee polluted the air. At the end of the hall was a circular clearing, where every level above was visible, up to the night sky through the glass ceiling. A transparent, round elevator connected the two stories above to the lowest, third one. Vending stands scattered around it, even closed: fried goods, books and phone cases. At the other end of the circle, turnstiles and police guarded the barrier to the trains, along with the ticket booth itself. Above them was a wide, digital panel announcing: "Borscht Boulevard. 10:43 p.m."

Polly stood at the end of the hall, fidgeting with her towel. She felt like exploring this place to see if people here could've cared for her, or if it was any more busy than above---there were even less people around, let alone ones not glued to their phones. If this town really is full of dangerous people, not many people would be wandering at this hour, anyway. Maybe the guards could help. But before that, a bathroom break.

The shiny, white and blue look of the bathroom was fake: a closer look proved the inbetweens of the wall tiles to be caked with filth and mold, the floor had dark spots, and an awful smell of cleaning products mixed with poo got stronger by the minute. She knew, from the splatters that crept under the doors, that peering into one of the stalls would make her vomit. Given her situation, however, the state of this restroom was the best-case scenario. Staying grateful could only help.

She pushed the button on one of the faucets and cupped her hands underneath, then drank what little water sputtered before the button was back in place. The cycle of pushing the button, drinking and pushing again bothered her in no time. Afterwards, she splashed some water on her face to wake up, then took a look in the mirror. Despite the trouble these past two days have been, she stayed the same bright-eyed little girl. Being all alone, this was the perfect opportunity to cry her stress out, but something tugged her tears back in. It took her a while to notice the figure entering the room, reflected on the mirror.

"You ... do know this is the men's, right?" the teenage voice said. He was a jackalope, with rosewood horns and ears that flopped down to his waist; staring her down from behind big, round eyeglasses. "Do you have any parents nearby?"

Her legs trembled. It didn't even cross her mind to check the signs outside. "Um, hi, I am ... Polly, I need help finding my mom. I've been in the streets since yesterday and---"

"How old are you?" He raised his thick eyebrows.

"I'm eight years old."

"Eight years old and homeless? That must *really* suck, man."

"It does, that's why I need help. So far no one wants to."

His eyes darted left, then right. "You know what? I'll help."

"For real?"

"Yeah, why not?"

Polly smiled. "Thank you, thank you, thank you." She squeezed him, letting a few tears escape.

"You're welcome, but ... I gotta pee first."

"Oh, okay, sorry."

As soon as she headed out, he called: "No no, don't worry. You can stay." With his pants down, he pointed his peepee at one of the weird, crotch-level sinks. "Come on."

She walked back to him. "Why do you---do I have to?"

"Yep, you're a cutie, so I'll let you."

His smirk tried to reassure her, but she was left more confused. No one would watch others do their business, why should Polly? Every instinct told her to back away, but she froze in place. The image of the yellow---almost orange---stream hitting the drain burned into her memory.
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Seated on an orange, plastic bench, they waited for the train at the platform. A yellow, bumpy strip of floor was near the edge---she couldn't find a reason why it was there. The walls curved out, as if it was avoiding the trashed pit the railway stood in. Instead of gluing himself to phones and earbuds, the jackalope fiddled with photos in his bulky, red camera: flowers, insects, tall trees, town squares, happy families and food stands. Some of them were about him, and he did a good job of showing his best features---in one of them, the sun shined his blond hair from behind, which was messy enough to look like its rays. Wherever he took these, it wasn't Portcinnere.

"Which one do you think I can delete?" he asked.

A blurry picture of a feral puppy against the sun came up. "That one. I can barely tell it's a dog," she said. " ... By the way, what's your name again?"

"It's Hay---Ronnie. It's Ronnie."

"Hay Ronnie?"

"Just Ronnie. Was thinking of something else, sorry." He cleared his throat and put the camera back in his black bag, where the other photo equipment was. "So uh, when was the last time you saw your parents?"

"I was walking with my mom, going to this bus stop at the end of the city, and we stopped at Jenny's Bakery. I don't think you know where that is ...?"

"Maybe I know that place. I live in the south region."

"Mom showed me it was south on the map. Anyway, we stopped there to get some food, but then I wandered off and lost her. Then someone offered to help but ...." She frowned. "He just turned out to be a bad guy."

"How was he bad?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Aw, come on," he nudged her arm, "you can trust me. I'm gonna be the one helping you after all."

Polly looked up at him with teary eyes. "He hit me a lot, and he took me to this abandoned place and ...."

"And what?"

"He made me do nasty things to him."

" ... Like?"

"Like, suck his peepee, and put it in my ... you know," she whispered.

"Why do you think he did that?" Ronnie's voice came low as he leaned into her.

"I think it felt good for him."

"Did it feel good for you too?"

She choked up, lips trembled. " ... No. No it didn't."

"I'm so sorry that happened to you, Polly." Despite the topic, he kept the same relaxed tone. "While I find out where your mom is, you can stay over at my house, alright?"

"Thank you so much." She hugged him.

" ... Hey, Polly."

"Hm?"

"Have you ever wanted to be a model?"

"No, not really. Why?"

"Maybe I can take some pretty pictures of you later. Would you like that?"

"That sounds interesting."

A familiar whoosh vibrated the tunnel, followed by a platinum train. Once it stopped and opened its doors, more people boarded in than out. Blue seats and metal beams, attached to the cream-colored walls, lined each side. Above the doors were maps and guides for navigating the subway system. Polly stole a seat beside a window, while Ronnie stayed upright, holding a pole.

"Come on, I saved you a spot." She pointed to the seat beside her, claimed by her legs.

"No thanks, this is way more fun. You should try it."

"But it gets really jiggly, you can fall."

"That's the point. Come on."

She stood up and held the pole with both hands, getting as close to it as she could.

A ding echoed from the intercom, followed by "Next stop, 22nd South Street". The train began to pick up speed by the second, splitting the air inside the tunnel into a hum. The more the floor wobbled, the more Polly could feel her towel slip---until it fell to the ground. As she bent down to catch it, a couple stares and giggles came from onlookers. As if being naked wasn't enough embarassment. Wrapped around the pole, she covered her front with the towel and the back with her feathered tail.

"Ronnie," she called, "can you help?"

He turned and gave a cheeky grin. "Heh, you're gonna have to wait until we stop."

Soon enough, the next station zoomed by the windows, devoid of any people. Most inside were getting ready to hop off; Ronnie was, too. When the train stopped and open, Polly toddled off with Ronnie---doing her best to keep her decency---and stood next to a bench on the platform.

"Can you help now?" she said.

He kneeled down and held the dangling ends of the towel, then cinched it around her waist. Excess fabric tucked inside, then the top hem rolled down to her hip. "Now, this towel should never fall off."

Even after bouncing up and down, it stayed in place. "Thanks. How come I never knew about this?"

"You haven't dealt with high school locker rooms." He stood up and lent her a hand. "Let's go home. Did you have fun surfing the train?"

"No, not really. Maybe after I get real clothes." She held his hand, with a sense of safety she hadn't felt in days.

"Alright, I'll get you some real clothes then."

The night sky in Portcinnere was pitch black, with little of the stars Polly had at home. It looked glum, but on a second look, the faint stars were made obvious; they littered the sky with a hopeful light.