Ink

the one person it shouldn’t be. Ishikawa would put it together, the strange jagged wound on Tomohiro’s wrist appearing on the same day a dragon lifted into the sky.

“Oh,” he said, rubbing the back of his head. “I’m sorry you heard from me. He probably didn’t want to worry you.

Training was okay after that, don’t worry, but it just seemed like an awfully deep wound. It’s a shame, with the tournament coming up. And Ishikawa said Yuu is so good at calligraphy, so he’ll have to take a break from that, too. I hope it heals up.”

“Oh,” I finally squeaked out.

“Give him my regards, okay? Hope he is all healed up for the prefecture finals.” He gave a friendly wave and curved out the door.

As soon as I paid for my unagi and purin, I bolted out the door and down the dark streets. I turned down the alleyways, not even thinking of my own safety. I almost crashed into a boy on a bike as I twisted through the streets, until the houses got bigger and the crowds got smaller.

I didn’t stop until the iron gate was in sight. My lungs burned as I hunched over, panting, the crinkle of my conbini bag the only other sound in the thick night air. I pressed my hand against the cold metal nameplate above the intercom button. Once I’d caught my breath, I pushed the button in.

The metal gate was closed.

“Yes?” came a tinny voice across the intercom, and a thought fired through my brain.

Tomohiro.

But a moment later I realized it wasn’t Tomohiro but an older, rougher version of his voice. His dad.

“I’m looking for Yuu Tomohiro,” I said.

“He’s out” came the reply.

“I really need to talk to him,” I said, because really, what else could I say?

“Sorry.” The voice vibrated through the speaker. “I don’t know where he is. You could try his keitai. ”

Because that had worked so well over the past week.

“Thank you,” I said and turned down the street, wondering where to go next.

Toro Iseki, obviously, but as soon as I started sprinting down the street, I slowed down. There’s no way he’d be there, not this late. Would he?

I imagined his drawings fluttering through the darkness, as white as ghosts.

I flipped open my keitai, staring at his phone number on the bright screen. My finger circled the send button, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it again. It started to dawn on me, the only things I knew for sure: Yuu Tomohiro was not kidnapped by the Yakuza (yes, I had been worried about this).

Yuu Tomohiro’s wrist was seriously injured, more than he’d let on. And Ishikawa had seen it.

Yuu Tomohiro was avoiding me.

My heart felt like it had collapsed in on itself. Was that last one really true? Was it all in my head? There was this nagging unsettled feeling, like the balance of the world was tipping.

I twisted through the streets, not sure where to go. Toro Iseki was a long way to go if I was wrong, and I felt like I was. With his wrist that damaged, could he really draw anything? And would he want to draw anymore, after what had happened?

It’s worth my life, but it isn’t worth yours.

Was my life for sure at risk?

I had to find him. I stared down the street, the lights of Shizuoka blurring as I spun my head around. He was somewhere. I just had to figure it out.

I walked back to Shizuoka Station; it wasn’t like I had a better idea, and the station was the central nerve of the city.

On a board in the station, tourist flyers splayed out of little cubbyholes. Most of them had majestic views of Fuji or Shizuoka tea fields sprawled across them, but one was for Toro Iseki. I flipped the brochure open and saw the open hours.

Definitely closed by now, but that wouldn’t stop Tomohiro anyway. I debated about the twenty-minute bus ride, the long walk back if I was wrong. And if I was wrong, I sure didn’t want to break into Toro Iseki at dark. I shuddered, imagining my hand touching the wet snakeskin of the dragon, though of course his body was long gone by now.

Some places in the city didn’t close when the sun set.

Ramen-noodle-house signs gleamed in the darkness. Conbini stores glowed with their shiny mopped floors. I snuck a peek at the cafe where we’d had dinner together, but no luck.

What else might be open?

And what was Tomohiro thinking anyway, running off to places at night where I couldn’t find him? Didn’t he have entrance exams to worry about? And didn’t he need every spare moment of study time in between all those practices for the kendo tournament?

I stopped dead in the whirlwind of travelers that pulsed around the station.

Kendo.

I ran through Sunpu Park under the dim lamplight and the bare sakura branches, past lovers and friends strolling through, salarymen stumbling home from nights of drinking with coworkers. I ran until my lungs burned, until the roof of Sunpu Castle gleamed in the distant moonlight, and then I crossed the northern bridge toward Suntaba School.

I had to make sure Tomohiro was okay. Had Ishikawa backed off? No more swarming with creepy Yakuza members? After talking to Jun, I had to know. I had to know if everything was all right.

Most of the lights in the school had blinked out and it looked deserted, empty, like the shell of a distant memory.

Deserted except for the bright f luorescent lights that gleamed from the gym doorway.

I ran toward the door, my lungs about to burst and my legs about to give way. The warm light from the gym spread across the shadows of the rear courtyard, lighting up the tennis-court lines in a ghostly shade of yellow.

I stopped as I reached the open door, pressing myself against the frame as I peered in.

Tomohiro was inside, alone and decked out in kendo armor, swinging his shinai through the air. He turned, moving through the katas and kiri-kaeshis like a dancer in slow motion, silently at first, then with shouts of determination.

Even from here I could see how unsatisfied he was with the movements. He’d swipe through the air, curse as he walked back into place, then strike again. The shinai shook in his hands; he lost his grip and the sword fell an inch—not at lot, but enough to distinguish a point from a miss.

It wasn’t like him to struggle with the easier movements.

It took me five seconds to realize it was his wrist, because although the strength in a shinai swing comes from the left hand, it’s the right that guides the hit. And Tomohiro’s was going all over the place.

He swore and got back into place, shaking his head, clearing his thoughts. He thrust again, swung for a hit. He got it, but then the shinai fell again; better than I could do, but not like him at all.

I watched him struggle. I wasn’t sure what to do, whether I should let him know I was there. But why did I go all the way to Suntaba if I wasn’t even going to talk to him?

I stepped into the splash of artificial lights and walked toward him. He noticed me after a moment, lowering the shinai and pulling the men off his shoulders. I tried not to notice the way he stared at me, surprised and silent. I tried to stay focused on the fact that he was possibly avoiding me, and not to let on that I knew. Or to come off all mad at him. Something like that.

“You’re back,” he said, advancing toward me across the gym floor.

I squeezed the grain of annoyance in my mind as it struggled to get away.

“We got back this morning,” I said.

“Okaeri.” His voice was too gentle, passive almost. The whole thing felt off.