The Universal Passenger. Book 2. The Straw City

Outside, the darkness was absolute—no streetlights, no glow of civilization. Without artificial light, the night felt hushed and oddly welcoming, though as a kid, I’d hated the dark. Back then, it always seemed to hide danger, every rustle sharp and hostile in my ears. Especially in the city, where drunken barhoppers lurked around every corner.

Later, I read in some book that this fear was just a leftover from our ancient animal instincts—back when survival meant fending off wild beasts or rival tribes. That explanation actually comforted me so much that, over time, I not only made peace with the dark but even became one of those very same barhoppers stumbling home at dawn.

I pulled out a cigarette from the pack I’d discreetly swiped from the hallway shelf (likely belonging to the kid’s grandfather). Lighting up, I sat down on the porch steps, relieved I didn’t impale myself on a splinter. A cloud of exhaled smoke hung in the air, and without thinking, I inhaled it back. Cue a coughing fit. These cigarettes were brutal, way stronger than I’d expected. Wincing, I stubbed it out on the railing and flicked the butt into the dirt.

What’s even the appeal of these things?

I turned my gaze upward. It was probably around 4 a.m.—still dark enough for a few stubborn stars to linger, but dawn was already bleeding into the edges of the sky.

"Wish I could show you these stars," I said aloud, though I wasn’t sure who I was talking to.

A splash echoed from the lake—like a large fish breaking the surface. Sleep-deprived and driven by idle curiosity, I stood and walked toward the water.

Stepping onto the footbridge, I leaned over the edge and stared at my reflection. Gradually, it split into two, warping into something like a convex TV screen playing a film I didn’t recognize.

A walk through the Pink City, where the air was thick with spices and hope. I was with a girl, resting on concrete slabs stacked like staircases, watching water so still it seemed suspended in midair.

Who is she? Why can’t I see her face?

The stranger leaned her back against my shoulder, gazing elsewhere.

"Since I was a kid, I’ve loved looking at the moon."

It took me a second to recognize my own voice—filtered through my mind like a recording. It sounded alien, mismatched.

"Then," I continued, "years later as an artist, I ran into an acquaintance at a bar. He mentioned the spots on the moon are called ‘Mare Tranquillitatis.’ Know what I thought?" I studied the back of her head, her presence radiating warmth, like she already understood.

"That there’s no actual sea there?" She laughed.

"I thought… I’d like to go there," I said, staring at the sky and reaching up as if to touch something just out of grasp. "Because I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt that kind of peace here. But I didn’t say any of that to him. Just went home, sat on the balcony, and kept staring at that silver disc like it’d pull me closer if I looked hard enough."

A pause. The scent of her hair—warm, familiar—drifted over me.

"‘The Illusion of Tranquility’—that’s what I called the next painting. Sold like crazy that year. Guess that’s what everyone was missing."

"Tranquility?" she asked.

"Illusions," I corrected.

* * *

"WE'RE ON FIRE!"

I jerked away from the lake and spun around to see the kid darting frantically along the blazing porch. Flames surged hungrily, devouring the wooden planks.

"Why are you just standing there?!" Oscar shrieked. "DO SOMETHING!"

I lunged toward him—then my foot caught on a rope stretched taut across the footbridge.

Since when was that there—?

The world upended as I crashed into the water like a sack of bricks. Darkness swallowed me instantly. The last thing I saw was Oscar standing at the edge of the footbridge, arms crossed.

Always judging me…

Then the lake pulled me under.

* * *

"Seriously, man," Oscar tapped his yellow boot against the footbridge as I spat out lake water and tried to shake slimy algae off my shoulder. "First you shamelessly steal Grandpa's cigarettes, then you toss a lit butt into dry grass. What the hell were you thinking?"

"Sorry, kid," I wheezed, still catching my breath after my inglorious backflip into the water.

"Say that again?" He cupped a hand to his ear, stepping closer with exaggerated interest.

"I said I'm sorry, okay?!" I snapped. "My bad for screwing up and almost burning your house down."

Then I remembered the fire. I scrambled to my feet—only to find the porch completely intact, no signs of flames anywhere. The world was bright as midday.

"W-what the…?" I stammered. "Where's the fire?"

"Already put out," the kid said, rolling his eyes. "Not like we could count on you. Even a stray dog’s more useful."

"B-but why’s it so light out?"

"While you were busy with your impromptu swim, morning happened," Oscar replied, as if it were the most obvious thing. "Stop gaping and go change. Christ, you’re ruining clothes faster than I can wash them."

I looked down at my soaked outfit and trudged back to the house to raid Grandpa’s trunk—again.

"I need to call about that motorcycle," I told Oscar, pulling on a dry burgundy tee and a beige shirt with the sleeves rolled up. This time, I opted for knee-length jean shorts and cowboy boots, grimacing as I held up my sneakers—still dripping.

"I’ll help," Oscar said. "There’s a roadside diner not far. They’ve got a phone."

"Not far?" I blinked. "Since when is there anything 'not far' out here?"

"Yeah, west of the red cliff."

"And why the hell didn’t you mention this sooner?!" I snapped.

"You never asked," Oscar shrugged.

I was ready to strangle the kid with my bare hands, but then I reminded myself that his grandpa could return any minute—and probably wouldn’t applaud me for throttling his grandson.

Then again, maybe that’s exactly why the old man left…

"Alright, kid," I exhaled, forcing myself to stay calm. "Consider this me asking. Take me there so I can make the damn call."

"Whatever you say."

We left the cabin and circled around to the back, where a narrow path wound through dry thickets.

"How far is it?" I asked, ducking under branches that seemed determined to gouge my eyes out.

"Not too bad. Twenty-five minutes, maybe," Oscar estimated.

"Twenty-five minutes? Yeah, right next door…" I muttered sarcastically.

"What did you expect?" The kid hopped nimbly over a rocky outcrop—which I promptly tripped over. "If I were alone, I’d just grab my bike and be there in no time. But I’m stuck babysitting you, and you’re not exactly the best company."

"Oh really?" I laughed.

Bickering and trading barbs, we barely noticed the time passing until the roadside diner came into view.

"Classy joint," I drawled, eyeing the peeling yellowish walls that hadn’t seen a paint job in decades.

"Stop whining," Oscar clicked his tongue and marched inside.

The interior, surprisingly, was far cozier than the exterior suggested. Red leatherette sofas and checkered tabletops gave the place a retro charm, while the smell of fast food and freshly brewed coffee made my stomach growl on cue.Vintage posters and neon signs added to the diner’s lived-in warmth.

"Care to check out the menu, or do you know what you’d like already?"

A young waitress in a snapback cap leaned over slightly, her freckled face breaking into a grin as she adjusted her pale-yellow apron—emblazoned with a white chicken silhouette—and gave us an expectant look.

"Scrambled eggs with bacon and orange juice!" Oscar chirped, hopping onto a tall stool at the counter like it was nothing.

"And for you, sir?" The waitress turned to me while I gaped at the digital menu screen overhead like a deer in headlights.

How the hell does a place this remote have a digital menu?

"Uh… fries, a chicken burger, and coffee. Black. No sugar," I finally managed.

"Who's paying?" Oscar asked as I slumped onto the stool beside him, marveling at how effortlessly he’d scaled the height.

"I’ve got it," I muttered. "Just give me a minute."

"A minute for what?"

"A minute to figure out what the hell’s even going on here," I said, dunking a fry into ketchup so deep it emerged half-drowned in nuclear-red sauce.

The food arrived suspiciously fast.

"Think something’s off here?" Oscar whispered conspiratorially, sipping his juice.

"Not sure yet," I muttered. "Alright, time to make that call."

I walked over to the wall-mounted phone and picked up the receiver. As the dial tone buzzed in my ear, I patted my pockets for the scrap of paper with the number.

"Damn it!" I slammed the receiver back down hard enough to make the waitress flinch.

"What’s your problem?" Oscar hissed, darting over. "You’ll scare off the regulars—they don’t like loudmouths here."

"Must’ve left the number in my pants pocket," I growled. "Probably soaked through after the lake. The ink’s gone. Perfect."

"Relax! Even if it’s ruined, we’ll just go back to the stop and tear off a fresh one. Easy!" Oscar said, trying to sound upbeat.

"I wanted to sort out the bike today, Oz," I sighed, rubbing my temples. The exhaustion was hitting hard.

"Well, well!"

A lanky blond man sidled up to us, his sharp green eyes glinting with amusement. His features were gaunt—deep-set eyes, a long nose that came to a pointed tip—giving him the look of a smug fox who’d just caught wind of prey.

"What do you want?" I asked unfriendly, in no mood for small talk.

"Don’t take me for a spy, but I happened to overhear you’re looking for a bike."

The guy’s voice was grating, with a shrill, nasal quality. And at the end of every sentence, he spoke louder, like he was trying to puncture my eardrums. His gaunt, bony face reminded me of a cartoon Grinch—every muscle tensed into this smug, mocking expression.

He’s definitely stealing what little patience I have left, I thought, already plotting how to shake him off.

"So, what do you say, friends?" the guy pressed. "Still in the market for a bike?"

"Yeah!" Oscar nodded enthusiastically. "Definitely interested."

"Perfect!" The guy clapped his hands. "I’ve got one parked right outside the diner, and I’m ready to sell."

"Why the sudden urge?" I asked skeptically.

"Been wanting to upgrade for a while now."

The guy leaned against the wall and gazed dreamily through the diner's small window:

"My buddies all traded their worn-out nags for flashy cars. Can you believe it? Meanwhile, I'm still stuck with this old bike—can't even upgrade to a newer model."

"Trying to keep up with the pack?" I remarked sarcastically. "Is it really that important?"

"Damn right it is, my friend," he shot back without hesitation. "See, they're always—always—one step ahead of me. And it's just not fair!"

"Maybe you should get new friends if it bothers you that much," I snorted, amazed by his petty envy.

The guy practically radiated toxic, utterly pointless bitterness.

"That's not the solution, pal," he said, shaking his head. "But if you buy my bike, I can finally get mine."

"Alright, let's take a look at it first," I agreed.

At this point, I'd take anything—even a three-legged horse—just to get out of here.

We stepped outside, and my eyes landed on a perfect retro-styled naked bike. The black steel beast, with its spoke-like alloy wheels, gleamed playfully in the sunlight, completely out of place in this backwater.

"You're joking," I laughed, turning to the guy. "This is a brand-new model—a real speed demon for serious riders."

"There's always a newer model coming out, buddy," the guy drawled blissfully, picking his nose without a hint of shame. "So, whaddya say? Taking it?"

"I'd love to, but I don't have the cash on me right now," I admitted reluctantly, hating to concede defeat. "Maybe you could hold onto it for a bit while I scrape the money together?"

The guy dug around in his nose for another moment, then flicked something (which I decidedly did not want to see) aside before declaring:

"Take it now."

"But I can't pay you right now," I repeated, as if explaining to a particularly slow child.

"I know the boy—well, his grandpa, really. A man of his word, plus he’s into bikes too. You’ll pay me back, no doubt," the guy grinned.

I glanced at Oscar, but he just nodded confidently, looking utterly unfazed.

"Let’s take it?" the kid urged. "I don’t wanna walk back."

"How do I find you?" I asked the guy.

"Everyone around here knows me," he said, tilting his chin up. "Just ask for Kurt—they’ll point you my way."

With that, he sauntered back into the diner. I grabbed the helmet and handed it to Oscar.

"Put it on."

"But it’s too big for me," he whined.

"Safer this way if you're riding with me."

Grumbling, the kid obeyed, clamping his arms around my waist as I fired up the bike. Easing forward, I reminded myself to take it slow—this beast of a machine wasn’t exactly child-friendly.

Chapter 3

I didn’t want to go back to the lakeside cabin, but disappearing over the horizon with the kid wasn’t an option either. So I decided to cruise the highway for a while before dropping Oscar off—hoping his grandpa hadn’t returned yet and started panicking about his missing grandson.

After bumping through backroads onto the main highway, I headed in the opposite direction from Oscar’s place. The kid, who’d apparently never ridden anything faster than a bicycle, clung to me like a barnacle, his grip only fueling my urge to go faster.

As we passed the red cliff that gave the diner its name, I pulled over. Oscar still had a death grip around my waist. I had to knock his shoulder three times before he dared open his eyes.

"Off you get, Oz," I said, peeling him off me like a stubborn koala.

Oscar wobbled onto solid ground and yanked off the helmet, its visor fogged from his frantic breathing.

Kid probably forgot to exhale on every turn.

"It's beautiful here," I remarked, trying to ignore the flustered kid and giving him a chance to recover from the trip.

"I don't know why they call the rock red," Oscar spoke up.

I laughed. Even in a stressful situation, the kid stayed true to himself and kept nitpicking.

"I love trips like this. Always have," I continued. "New experiences spark new ideas for my paintings. I think when I get back home, I’ll sketch these landscapes."

"But you don’t like it here," the kid stated, and I thought I heard a note of reproach in his voice.

"I don’t like the feeling of being trapped," I corrected him. "Once I sort out all the absurd things going on here, I might even come back."

"I'm gonna go… somewhere," Oscar mumbled, leaving his helmet on the motorcycle seat.

"Where is there to go?"

"Got stuff to do!" the kid threw back and stepped behind the jutting base of the rock, which curved around us like a protective embrace.

"If you needed to take a leak, you could’ve just said so. What’s there to be shy about?" I clicked my tongue and leaned against the stone support next to me.

"Really though… the rock's not red at all."

The stone fortress seemed impregnable at first glance. On either side stood steep, sheer cliffs, devoid of any approaches (except for the possibility of going around them in a circle). The smooth, small surface of the ledges offered no chance of finding a way up. Yet, a barely noticeable narrow path stretched toward the summit. I tilted my head back, trying to trace where it led.

"The surface up there is mostly flat, slightly convex in the center and sloped. Hang gliders love it for that. People usually come here briefly and with a specific purpose—to artificially elevate themselves, to feel like a bird, but then, when the magic of flight fades, they leave as if they were never here. It’s always sad because of that, but also curious—which next city of winds will take them away?"

I stepped away from the girl who had suddenly appeared from behind the rocky ledge I was leaning against.

My company in this desolate wilderness clearly didn’t unsettle her. But her appearance left me stunned.

"How long have you been here?" I asked.

"Since birth," she shrugged. "Well, not right on this spot, of course, but in my own home. I live behind this cliff. And every time the cold evening wind blows, every time I hear the late train rushing past our outskirts—I remember the City of Winds. Oh, how often I remember it!"

The girl with asymmetrical features and wide-set eyes—large as saucers and slightly slanted—stared at me, pressing her thin lips into a friendly smile. She wasn’t a beauty, yet somehow the whole picture made her appealing, and even the natural desolation harmonized with her.

Her voice carried an excitement she was desperately trying to mask as playful cheer.

"Selena," she offered me her hand in greeting but immediately tucked it back into the pocket of her summer overalls, adorned with colorful wooden and plastic badges.

Her springy gait reminded me of either a carefree teenager or a space traveler in a bulky suit—an odd clash of hesitant nature and reckless extroversion.

As if reading my thoughts, the girl stopped pacing frantically around the motorcycle and ran a graceful finger along its seat.

"So, are you just going to stand there, rooting yourself into the ground?" she asked. "In that case, I should mention that the soil around here isn’t particularly fertile—so you’re unlikely to sprout grass, but you will get buried in fiery dust in no time. The weather here is often moody, and you’ll spend the next day shaking it out of every crevice. Honestly, it’s been ages since I’ve seen a new face—this place is remote, no matter how you spin it… So, what brings you here?"

I’d stopped listening to the girl who called herself Selena somewhere in the middle of her ceaseless monologue, so I missed the question directed at me.

"Don’t tell me you’re another investor-developer. We’ve sent plenty of those packing empty-handed. You see, the appeal of our land is its emptiness and solitude. We don’t want that changed."

"No, no," I hurried to cut off her musings. "I have no agenda, honestly. Just passing through. You could say I’m traveling."

"So… just because?" Selena arched a thin brow skeptically. "Well, if it’s just because, then let’s properly introduce ourselves."

The girl nimbly scrambled onto the lowest ledge of the cliff and sat down, tucking one leg beneath her and wrapping her arms around her knee. Taking a deep breath, as if exhausted by her own chatter, her smile faded for a second—but then, as if chastising herself, Selena grinned at me again, wider than before.

"What the hell is wrong with the people here?"

"I trust my intuition, and it tells me you’re harmless," the girl concluded with an appraising look. "You are harmless, right? Who are you here with?"

"Just me at the moment."

"Really?" Selena didn’t believe me, nodding toward the child’s footprints nearby.

"There’s a boy with me, but he wandered off somewhere."

"A child shouldn’t be left alone in such a desolate place," she said, resting her chin on her knee.

"Don’t worry about him—he’s a local to the bone. I’m more likely to get lost or into trouble here than that kid."

"Case in point: stumbling upon a weird hippie girl who probably keeps a knife hidden in her sock."

"Still, if you want to come to my place, stranger, you’ll have to find your companion first."

"And what were you doing out here?"

"Playing hide-and-seek," Selena replied calmly.

"With who?" I tensed, half-expecting an armed gang to come charging out.

"Depends on the day," she said airily. "Today… you found me."

"Think I stepped on a snake," came Oscar’s voice as he approached.

The kid emerged from behind the rocks and glared at the girl:

"Selena."

"Heya, Ozzy!" she beamed. "Long time no see! How’s life? How’s your grandad?"

"Just peachy," he replied sarcastically, gesturing to his dirt-covered knees.

"Three set out at sunset toward the flaming mountains. They carried a map, a flask, and an age-old dream!" Selena laughed.

"Okay, now that’s just too much," I muttered, heading toward the motorcycle, eager to put distance between myself and this odd hippie girl. Dealing with the kid was hard enough as it was. "Let’s go, Oz," I said, handing him the helmet. He stared at it, alarmed.

"What a pity," Selena sighed. "I thought we’d spend some time together."

"We need to head back—it’ll be dark soon," I replied, trying to start the bike.

The engine sputtered pathetically, but the machine refused to budge.

"Perfect. Just perfect!" I dismounted from the lifeless hunk of metal and kicked it in frustration.

"Don’t tell me Kurt sold us junk," I said to the kid, who’d already taken off his helmet, clearly pleased by the breakdown.

"How should I know?" Oscar shrugged. "I don’t know squat about bikes."

"Or people," I grumbled. "You’re the one who told me to trust him."

"I said I didn’t want to walk back. The rest was your call."

I glared at Oscar, who was clearly mocking me—just like everything else in this godforsaken place—and let out a groan of exasperation.

"Since you’re not going anywhere, it seems, you’re welcome to come to my place!" Selena chimed in.

The terracotta leather boots touched down on the dusty ground, kicking up a small cloud of sand. Selena approached us with a smile, absentmindedly tucking a strand of her wavy ash-blonde hair behind her ear as she walked.

* * *

"You live in a trailer?" I stared in surprise at the small, light-gray van.

"I need to travel comfortably to the places I want to be," Selena replied, inviting us inside.

The interior was pure hippie-nomad perfection. Along one wall stood a narrow bed covered with a patchwork quilt stitched from mismatched fabrics. A similar rectangular rug—woven from coiled fabric scraps—lay on the floor. A wall-mounted shelf held a twin-burner gas stove and a tiny kettle.

Beneath the long window (which swung outward to form a makeshift awning) sat a table and a lumpy purple beanbag. Every inch of wall space was plastered with souvenirs and mini-signs bearing city and state names. Under the bed, I spotted a thick stack of letters tied with a black shoelace.

"Wondering what’s in them?" Selena asked, following my gaze.

"I don’t make a habit of snooping," I said, shaking my head.

"Yeah, right," the kid snorted.

"Generally speaking," I amended, remembering the ill-fated cigarette that nearly burned a house down.

"But I’ve always loved wondering what letters hold," Selena mused, pulling the bundle from under the bed. "Sometimes I reread my favorites—to feel closer to the people who wrote them."

"I’d rather just visit someone than endlessly write letters. Or reread them," I scoffed.

Selena plucked a neatly folded sheet from the stack and tapped it with her thumb.

"Sometimes circumstances make it impossible to visit those you want to see," the girl replied sadly, "but a letter—that’s already an action! It’s a connective thread that keeps relationships from fraying."

"Seems like unnecessary effort to me," I disagreed.

"What’s worse in your book: unnecessary effort or complete inaction?" the kid chimed in, addressing Selena.

She twirled the paper in her hand, kissed it, and tucked it back into the stack, carefully tightening the shoelace around them.

"Complete inaction," she finally answered. "When someone does a lot—even if it’s misdirected—you see the effort. It shows they care enough to try, however they can. Even if it’s just a scribbled note about where they are. But in the territory of inaction? Absolutely nothing grows. Just scorched earth and emptiness taking root. Nothing survives in that environment—only indifferent stillness."

"Sounds like our neighborhood," the kid remarked.

Selena smiled at Oscar and moved toward the back of the van, where a curtain divided the space. Behind it lay a deflated two-person air mattress—the kind used for floating on water.