Runa was the last person to board the ferry. Her legs felt soft and weak, like plasticine. What if she never found Ping? at would she do in China on a stolen passport with a tourist visa, little money, and no friends? And yet she couldn’t stay in Japan and become the whore who abused a schoolboy, because she couldn’t deny anything but didn’t feel guilty. She had always thought it would be interesting to be famous or notorious, but not like this. And she remembered Kawasaki’s words—I’d wring her neck—and felt sure that he would.
So she picked up her bag, carried a can of Coke from which she sipped as she walked, and crossed from rough concrete to water. Almost immediately it seemed she was lost in a crowd of ecstatic, waving people, unable to see the sides of the deck for arms, legs, and suitcases. She stood still in the middle, absorbed the chaos. She kept drinking the Coke in small cold sips. She was not Runa; she was Nanao. The boat dipped and rose. She felt a little nauseous. That was good. Runa never got seasick but Nanao always did.