The Universal Passenger. Book 2. The Straw City

"If you inflate it yourselves, you’re welcome to sleep here tonight," she said, pulling a portable pump from a small corner cabinet.

Handing it to me, she kicked off her boots and stretched blissfully onto her tiptoes.

"Take off your shoes," she advised. "The earth is cool and soothing to tired feet in the evening."

"I'm good, thanks," Oscar shook his head, tapping his rubber boots against the floor.

"Is there a repair shop around here?" I asked, not expecting a positive answer.

"Here, every resident has their own 'repair shop'—usually a garage," Selena crossed her arms, but upon seeing my grim expression, added: "There’s a little private workshop further down past the cliffs. Run by an old mechanic and his son. They can fix your bike. I always stop by when my trailer needs patching up."

"That’d be perfect—otherwise, I’ll have to pay Kurt a visit for some… explanations," I replied irritably. "And maybe patch up his jealous face while I’m at it."

* * *

Spending the night in a trailer in the middle of nowhere was its own special kind of ordeal. The van had baked under the sun all day, with not a single tree or body of water in sight. The silence, devoid of any city rhythms, was occasionally broken by the chirping of insects that sounded almost like cicadas.

Selena must’ve picked up their habit—emerging once every seventeen years just to make noise.

Oscar, true to form, had fallen asleep instantly, only occasionally mumbling something incoherent in the depths of his slumber.

Selena, like me, wasn’t sleeping. We sat under the trailer’s awning on foldable camping chairs, a bronze kerosene lamp from what looked like the 12th century resting on the ground between us.

"Why are you alone?" I asked, watching as she fiddled with the beaded bracelet on her wrist.

"Who says I’m alone?" Selena sounded surprised. "You saw how many letters I have."

"You know what I mean. Why isn’t anyone traveling with you?"

"I never really thought about it."

She stood up, restless, clearly uncomfortable with the topic.

"Then why are you with Oscar?"

"Avoiding the question, Selena," I smirked.

"Fine, you win," she conceded. "I’m not… great with people. If I play hide-and-seek with myself, how can I ever really open up to others? Trust them?"

"You should try. You did let us stay the night, and you were the one who spoke to me first," I reminded her.

"You know what? You're right!"

Selena said it so loudly that a grumble came from inside the trailer—Oscar, stirring awake.

We laughed and headed inside. It was time to at least try to sleep.

* * *

After barely four hours of sleep, running on adrenaline from the upcoming tasks and sleep deprivation, I stepped out of the trailer to the mouthwatering aroma of frying sausages and coffee.

Oscar was already polishing off his breakfast with relish while Selena expertly flipped the remaining sausages on a small cast-iron grill, poking at them with a fork.

"Hungry?" she asked me, flashing a smile—this time genuine, without a trace of yesterday's unease.

"Starving," I nodded, dropping onto the beanbag chair next to Oscar that she'd dragged outside.

"We should do these outings more often," the kid said, licking his fingers. "Just gotta remember to pack rations next time."

"Easy there, cowboy," I snorted. "Your grandad's probably turning the place upside down looking for you."

"Doubt it. He usually takes off for two or three weeks at a time. Travel's in his blood."

"Funny," Selena said, handing me a plate of sausages that still sizzled and popped with heat. "Your grandfather once told me he hates traveling and only does it out of necessity."

"How long's it been this time?" I asked carefully.

"Not long," the kid shrugged, grabbing a glass of water from the folding table. "Five days, maybe."

I tried to calculate how long I'd been stuck with Oscar. By my internal clock, it had to be at least a week—but I had no proof.

After a cholesterol-and-caffeine-fueled breakfast, we hitched the motorcycle to the trailer and set off for the private repair shop Selena had mentioned earlier.

Chapter 4

As we pulled up to a small building with a neon sign reading "END OF THE LINE," two figures emerged to greet us.

An older man with long gray hair tied back in a ponytail tilted his head to the side, studying the bike with a critical eye. Meanwhile, a younger guy—presumably the mechanic's son—planted his hands on his hips and waited for us to climb out of the trailer, its door screeching shut behind us.

He too had long hair (though jet-black), tied up in a bun that gleamed with an oily sheen in the sunlight. It reminded me instantly of Indians and their lustrous braids, worn by both men and women.

The guy slid his sunglasses down his nose and gave me a nod.

"Another hotshot found our little 'End of the Line,' huh?" he drawled. "Lemme guess—you were just riding along when, outta nowhere, it decided to stop hauling your lazy asses through the backcountry?"

"We bought it from a local," I said, deciding to throw shade at the locals. "His name's Kurt. Heard of him?"

"Who hasn't heard of him?" The old man laughed, adjusting a wrench in his stretched-out jeans pocket that kept shifting and threatening to fall out. "That swindler buys up all the junk that shines and looks appealing, then sells it off as brand new."

"I'll beat the stupid out of him," I gritted my teeth, trying to suppress my anger.

"Oh come on, cool your jets!"

The young man approached the motorcycle (which Selena had already unhitched from the trailer) and gave it a quick once-over.

"This 'warrior' has plenty of life left. After repairs, it'll be good as new. Hell, I'd bet a pint of ale this bike sat in Kurt's place for ages."

"Why's that?" I grumbled, still riding my aggressive emotions.

"Kurt can't ride for shit," the old man chuckled, "but apparently his act as a hardcore biker works, since you fell for it."

The men burst into even louder laughter, and even Selena and Oscar turned away to avoid provoking me with their snickering.

"How long will it take you to find and fix the problem?" I asked, ignoring the tremor in my hands and the nagging urge to wipe those smirks off their faces.

"These things can't be rushed," the old man scratched the back of his head. "We're looking at three days of work."

"Three?" I was stunned. "You got some kind of waiting list or something?"

"We're always swamped with work," the old man said, offended. "We're the only mechanics around here all the way to the city."

I peered into the building—which looked more like a shipping container for valuable cargo than a proper repair shop.

"It's empty in there," I pointed out. "You don't have a single car."

"Why don’t you step inside first, smartass?" the younger guy egged me on, pushing his sunglasses up with his middle finger.

I didn’t resist and strode confidently into the container, pretending not to notice his crude gesture.

"Hanging up a sign and grabbing a wrench doesn’t make you a mechanic. Amateurs…" I muttered under my breath as I stepped inside.

The moment I entered, I was hit by a wave of cool dampness and the smell of motor oil mixed with cleaning products. I turned to the right—and couldn’t believe my eyes.

The space was big. No, it was enormous. Inside, everything was divided into sections by concrete partitions. I stepped carefully across the perfectly clean floor, staring at the assortment of vehicles like I was in a museum—ranging from the latest models to long-forgotten relics.

"Well?"

The young man fell into step beside me, popping a toothpick into his mouth with evident satisfaction.

"You fix all these yourselves?" I managed. "Where’d so many vehicles come from in the middle of nowhere? There’s not a soul for kilometers."

"More tourists than you’d think," he shrugged. "Name’s Ned, by the way. That’s my dad—Franklin. But he hates the full name, thinks it’s too pompous, so just call him Frank."

"Pleasure, Ned," I shook his hand. "Good to know."

After what I’d just seen, my trust in these guys was skyrocketing.

The others caught up, and Oscar pointed deeper into the station, toward an area we hadn’t reached yet.

"Is that… a helicopter?" Selena asked, incredulous.

"We’ll take on anything that needs restoring—except people, of course," Frank declared solemnly. "Not for free, naturally."

"About that… I don’t have cash on me. Truth is, I got the bike on credit to begin with," I admitted, shoulders slumping.

"Who needs truth?" Ned adjusted his glasses. "We’ve been around long enough to spot who’s good for it. Obviously, you’re not."

I glanced down at myself and only then noticed how filthy and disheveled I was. My clothes had taken a beating on the road and reeked—something I’d somehow missed until now.

I could’ve sworn my hair had grown out enough to fully obscure my vision.

"You got a shower here?" I asked.

"Down the hall, left, then left again," Ned pointed. "Meanwhile, we’ll discuss payment with your friends."

"I don’t want you covering for me," I told Selena and the kid. "Worst case, we leave the bike here and let Kurt come collect it himself."

"Relax," the kid met my gaze.

"Glenn, quit dawdling," the father called to the guy.

"Glenn?" I frowned. "You introduced yourself as Ned."

"Did I? Pretty sure I didn’t," he dodged, rolling the toothpick across his tongue.

"Whatever," I waved it off and headed down the hall, itching to wash away at least the last 24 hours.

"Hell, maybe the last few years while I’m at it…"

* * *

The hallway turned out to be winding and illogical. I turned left exactly twice as Ned—or Glenn, whatever his name was—had instructed, only to find myself facing a solid wall. I tried again. Another dead end.

After wandering through a pointless labyrinth of convoluted nooks, I was about to head back when I realized that wouldn't be so simple either. But then I spotted sunlight ahead and guessed it must be a second exit.

Emerging outside at the rear of the service station, I was once again struck by how small it seemed—just an ordinary shipping container. The weirdness never ended.

I stared at the iron rectangle, now draped with green ivy.

"I don’t remember that weed being on the roof when we arrived. Then again, I wasn’t paying much attention," I mused, shoving my hands into the pockets of my denim shorts. My fingers brushed against an envelope.

"To Constantin," it read.

I wasn’t entirely sure the letter was meant for me—up until now, I hadn’t even stopped to consider what my name was. But now, fragments of memory began resurfacing.

"Why should we live this life if we have no personal observer? After all, a director wouldn’t make a film knowing no one would watch it. We’ve lived apart through countless lives, but please—if that curious boy in yellow rubber boots still lingers somewhere in your subconscious, trust him."

"Selena," I said aloud, "speaking in riddles again. And why is she telling me to trust Oscar? Did I ever say I didn’t trust the kid?"

"If that’s you ‘cleaned up,’ I’ve got bad news for you."

Frank approached, tracing a wrench through the air as he sized me up.

"You’ve got catacombs back there. A miracle I even found the exit."

"What’s that paper in your hand?" Frank asked.

"No idea," I shook my head, "but it says ‘To Constantin.’"

"So you’re Constantin, then?"

Frank scratched his shoulder blades with the wrench’s handle and reached for the letter.

"Nothing interesting in there," I said automatically, pulling it away and tucking it back into my pocket.

"You know, Constantin," Frank smiled. "My boy and I have owned this station a long time. Technically, Glenn was born here, grew up here, learned the trade here."

I glanced at the "container" and said nothing.

"Plenty of folks have come through here. Plenty of well-off ones too," Frank clarified. "But someone as distrustful as you? That’s rare. Even Selena has her moments of being more forgiving. After all, she’s the one who brought you here, right? Doubt you’d have lasted a day on your own."

I was offended. In all my time here, even a crow had managed to judge me. I opened my mouth to retort, but Frank cut in:

"Don’t get me wrong—in a way, I get it. I lost my wife early on, raised my boy alone. Kids, as you know, are restless little beasts. Glenn still pulls stunts. Loves attention, no denying that. But that’s life, so he works with me."

"I’m sorry about your wife," I sighed. "Must’ve been hard, losing her like that, especially with a child to raise."

"Huh?" Frank looked confused. "Oh! Nah, you got it wrong. She’s alive and well—just ran off with that dung beetle, Vance."

"Ah," I finally understood. "And who’s Vance?"

"Local farmer," Selena chimed in, the kid beside her. "His ranch feeds half the county. Land’s crazy fertile."

"Scoundrels like Vance always have the best soil," Glenn added. "You should drop by, get acquainted."

"No way!" the kid snapped. "Quit messing with us."

"What’s the problem?" I asked.

"Vance is the local boogeyman," Selena explained.

"Oh, come on," Glenn scoffed, spitting out his toothpick. "He’s alright. Just… moody sometimes. Normal stuff."

"Rumor is he’s got an entire weapons cache buried on his ranch," the kid whispered conspiratorially.

"That’s just gossip from bored locals," Glenn countered. "They’ve said all kinds of things about us too. That we’re smugglers, secret millionaires—hell, even mechanics."

"Even mechanics?" I repeated, tensing up.

"Glenn's joking," Frank tried to reassure me. "What he means is that locals here love making up tall tales. Anyone who achieves even a little something suddenly gets wrapped in legends."

"And if this 'achiever' happens to be an outsider? Lights out. They'll be branded a 'stranger' forever," the kid nodded in agreement.

"I thought locals would have enough problems of their own," I replied, processing this information.

"They've grown tired of their routine troubles," Frank chuckled. "So they crave fresh 'meat' for gossip."

"Same old story everywhere," the kid muttered. "Let's go. We've settled the repair terms."

"We'll be nearby, in the trailer," Selena told the mechanics. "Let us know when it's ready."

"Three days, not sooner," Glenn repeated.

"Which means at least five," I grumbled, resigning myself to Glenn being quite the storyteller.

As we drove away from the station, Selena remarked, "Glenn's not a bad guy, really."

"I don't like him," Oscar said bluntly. "Did you notice how he's always hiding his shameless eyes behind those sunglasses?"

"It's just really sunny right now," Selena tried defending him.

"Yeah, right," the kid stared out the window. "Lies as easily as he breathes."

* * *

For three days, we stayed in Selena's trailer. As an exception, we drove to nearby grocery stores for supplies, and I finally managed to wash up in a questionable roadside motel. Still, even these conditions felt like a blessing at this point. I couldn't recall exactly how far we were from Oscar's place, but judging by the landscape, it was quite a distance. Naturally, I spent every minute cursing Kurt, mentally picturing strangling him with the shoelace that bound Selena's stack of letters.

"Relax," Selena chattered nonstop, steering toward the repair shop while sharing cheese puffs with Oscar.

I had no appetite. All I wanted was to find out if the bike was ready.

"Who stockpiles weapons on a ranch in bulk?"

Oscar and Selena had been arguing the whole way about the credibility of rumors concerning the farmer named Vance.

"Farmers!" Oscar retorted heatedly.

"And who else?" Selena teased, amused by the kid's agitation.

"Dunno… Farmers' mothers!"

"Probably their wives too?" she giggled, refusing to let up.

Their pointless bickering was cut short when I noticed something ahead—or rather, the lack of it.

"Where's the repair shop?" I interrupted.

"Are we even in the right place?" Oscar asked, glancing at Selena.

She slammed on the brakes. The three of us lurched forward before rebounding back into our seats.

I jumped out of the trailer and hurried toward the empty lot while Oscar checked if his nose was still intact.

The breeze carried scraps of colorful tinsel and candy wrappers across the empty lot, while the scent of popcorn and cotton candy lingered in the air.

An old Jeep drove past me, and an elderly man leaned out the window.

"The circus left, but you stayed behind?" he joked.

"What circus?" I asked.

"The traveling kind," the man replied, pointing two fingers at the barren field. "They put on quite a show here—ran for almost a month. The last three days? Absolute spectacle."

"And those illusionists!" An elderly woman popped her head out from the back window, giving me a friendly smile. "Unforgettable!"

"What did they look like, these illusionists?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Father and son. Tall, long-haired gentlemen."

"I even won a pair of glasses from them!" the man announced proudly, holding them up.

Glenn's sunglasses gleamed mockingly in the sunlight, their gilded frames flashing—and in them, I caught my own reflection.

I turned away as the elderly couple hit the gas with a screech, leaving me standing in a cloud of dust.

The kid stood slightly behind Selena and stared at me in fear.

"You said you’ve known them for a long time," I hissed, turning to the girl and stepping closer.

"Yes," she answered curtly.

"Said you’d already fixed your van at their place."

"Yes, but listen, I’m bad with faces," the girl began. "Maybe it wasn’t them."

"I hope you’re not serious, Selena," I seethed. "Because I’m out of patience, and you—" I jabbed my finger at Oscar, who was pressing himself against her, "—I don’t know what you’re scheming or what you’ve dragged me into, but I’ve had enough."

"Constantin," Selena said, "I’m really sorry, I don’t know how this happened."

"We’ll fix it. Trust us," the kid replied.

Anger washed over me. I completely lost control and glared at the kid through the growing haze in front of my eyes. The word "trust" was already a red flag for me, especially coming from these two.

After blinking a couple more times, I found myself in a pub, leaning over a heavily drunk man, my fist raised above him.

"Has this happened before?" echoed in my head.

"Call the police!" someone shouted in the background.

"This guy’s completely lost it."

"He got hit too—that thug started it first!"

The voices of the unseen crowd blended with the sounds of broken glass and rock music. I looked at my bruised knuckles and back down. The man on the floor was gone.

My mind strained heavily, trying to show how I had gotten drunk from anxiety (but why?) in the pub and picked a fight with a stranger who had given me a sidelong glance. Apparently, I was also looking for an opponent—some way to unleash the negativity.

"But what pushed me? Did they actually call the police?" swirled chaotically in my head.

"Stop!" a woman's voice commanded sharply. "You don’t want this, Constantin. We don’t want this."

I began looking around, twisting back and forth, my body coiling through space.

"Who stopped me back then? Was I even with a girl?"

* * *

"Back with us, I see," Oscar said, pulling off his rubber boot and pouring the leftover water back into the lake.

"Where’s Selena?" I asked, staring blankly at the small footbridge where my own shadow flickered.

"She dropped us off and left right away—forgot already? Not surprising, though. In your usual style, you face-planted into the lake first thing. Maybe you should get a floatie, or, I dunno… armbands? Can’t exactly stretch a safety net over the whole lake."

I looked at the kid as he grimaced, pulling the wet boot back onto his foot, then wiped his palm on the leg of his coveralls. The coveralls, oddly enough, were completely dry.

"Oz," I said quietly, "tell me straight—what’s going on here?"

"What does it look like?" he shot back.

The kid’s eyes seemed older than he was. Only now did it hit me—his wisdom didn’t match his naive, childlike face at all.

"Am I dead?" I asked, fighting back nausea.

Oscar burst out laughing and stood up.

"Man, Constantin, you’re something else. If you were dead, how could we have had such a fun time together? Or do you think I’m dead too?"

"I don’t understand any of this," I said hopelessly.

"Yeah, no kidding," the kid shook his head. "You can’t even figure yourself out—no way you’ll get the rest. Alright, here’s the deal. You help me fix the roof and patch up the house before Grandpa gets back. And I’ll… gradually explain everything."

I looked at the kid, then at the lake (its calm surface stretching wide), then back at the kid—and nodded.

I’d already realized I didn’t have a choice.

Chapter 5

Summer was coming to an end. At least, that’s what Oscar had convinced me of, and the increasingly frequent downpours and dropping temperatures seemed to confirm it.

About two weeks had passed since I’d last seen Selena. Every night before bed, a bitter frustration gnawed at me—we’d parted on such a sour note. And yet, she’d only ever treated me with good intentions.

Oscar kept insisting the hippie girl wasn’t holding a grudge and might even visit again someday, but my memory—much like the relentless rains—kept tormenting me with fragments of the past. Reminding me how I used to snap at people, with or without reason, completely unable to control my emotions or stop myself in time.

Humility was never part of my communication skills.

After nights spent stewing in regret, I’d throw myself into work each morning, hoping to exhaust my body enough to escape the insomnia.

I’d fixed the roof—just in time before the rainy season. Patched every crack and hole in the cabin. Whitewashed the ceilings, repainted the walls, buying all the supplies I needed from the local hardware store… on credit. At this point, I’d lost track of how many people in the area I owed. Honestly, drowning in the lake would’ve been easier than tallying up my debts to the entire village.

As for that strange, recurring incident, Oz still hadn’t given me a straight answer, brushing it off as another one of my memory lapses.

Every time I felt like I was on the verge of understanding—of remembering something—I’d end up back in the lake. Eventually, it became automatic. I’d just swim out calmly, no panic, no struggle.

Looks like humility was finally starting to sink in.

"I love the quiet here," the kid rubbed his ear, still smeared with a streak of lime-green paint.

The entire time I'd been fixing up the place, Oz had been helping me. That restless little runt couldn't sit idle for even half an hour. So when it came time to paint, he'd insisted on picking the color for his own walls and joining in.

He wasn't exactly a natural at it. His brushstrokes were uneven, some patches darker than others. But then it hit me—it looked better this way. Like the kid was just starting his journey as an artist, and this was his first stab at impasto.

"I've noticed most folks around here are pretty meek," I said.

"Wrong," Oz kept scratching his paint-stained ear. "Wouldn't call 'em meek. Just… calm."

"I envy that," I plucked a dry maple leaf from the pile we were sitting on and dropped it into the lake, watching it drift away.

"Save your envy for Kurt," Oscar snorted.

"Don't bring him up."

I still hadn't let go of the idea of tracking that guy down to talk about the motorcycle—the one we needed to reclaim from those shady mechanics.

"In silence, you hear more," Oz said, eyes following the floating leaf. "We keep quiet so we don't miss what matters. No point wasting attention on the same noise looping over and over. And we always remember the golden rule."

"Which is?"

"Noise is contagious," Oz shrugged and sprawled across the dry leaf pile, staring at the sky. "It only takes one loud argument in a crowd before the dissonance infects everyone, turning cognitive."