Everyone is obsessed with the shadows of passing cars. Many people pay attention to the decreasing light, the placement of the leaves. She puts her hand on the back of the seat, shock fills her features.

The cab driver thought that it was curious, a girl no younger than fourteen being so interested in the sunshine peeping through the windshield. She smells of dirt and twine. He thinks. She seems scared, lost. She purloined these bills, she had to have. Small girls who smelled of dirt and felt fascinated by passing daylight did not receive steady income. Scars line her arms; scratches speckled her jaw. Girl has a wild look about her.  Matted hair creates a constellation of melted chocolate locks. A twig, he notices. A twig is in her hair. Indifference sits on her cheekbones. She's lived this way for a while, it seemed. Where did she sleep? Did she sleep upon a bough with her head laid in a bird nest? Poor birds. He finds himself losing interest in the girls circumstances, and finally opens his mouth.

"So, where you goin'?"
"The floral shop in Osaka. I can point it out, I think." she says, softspoken. Her eyes are flittering around, as if she thinks it's nearby.
"Osaka's far from Ueno," he says, "I'll tell you when to start looking. What road should I take? Do you know? What's the shop look like?"
"...I think it's near Dojima. It's small."

And they don't talk for the rest of the ride.

He looks back occasionally to make sure the tiny girl is still there, still real. She seems lost in thought as she flicks the bills between her fingers. Occasionally she'll see something interesting--a landmark, perhaps a pretty building or even one not-so-pretty. Each time she sees something that interests her, she grabs the edge of the door and watches, mouth agape. Ueno's a shady place that he prefers to never visit. Perhaps that's why, she's a shady kid who never sees the sunlight.

The Dojima Inn shows up and he knows where he is. The floral shop isn't far, and she knows. She points out the window; she doesn't say anything, she's lucky that he's aware of the destination.

He pulls up. She opens the cab door, eyes smiling, and looks around in awe. She approaches the door of the quaint little shop, and she goes in. Windows are gaping open, revealing their benign teeth. He glances in. He has nothing better to do.

A girl, no older than his customer, with long, dark hair awaits inside the shop and he sees them hug. It's a happy reunion, they push hair out of each others eyes and talk excitedly, bouncing around. In that shop, they're simply two young, teenage girls who get excited over miniscule things, girls who haven't seen the hell of reality. However, he sees it in the other girl's eyes--no glint before dirt child showed up.
After a lengthy exchange of words, there's a not-so-lengthy exchange, an exchange of flowers for yen. One more smile appears before she turns, looks to the cab, leaves. She gingerly climbs in and smells like lilies planted in wet soil. He drives back to Ueno. She asks him to drop her off in front of the Tokyo National Museum. She gently places bills in his hand, and strides off. He drives.

                                ***

The streets are bustling. They are humming with the sound of chatter free commute. He's moved to New York, not sure if he likes it yet. He did do well in his English class back in high school. The language isn't the problem.

The problem is how rude everyone seems to him. Perhaps it's cultural. He doesn't think about it. He puffs a cigar--picked up the habit recently. He's on Broadway, someone who seemed fairly important over the phone had called him to pick them up.

He does it, follows the barked order. Short, red hair. Tiny woman, woman who looks like she's from his country. She climbs in with a surprisingly polite greeting. He speaks his native tongue, and she answers. She wants to get to 14th street, she says. Runs her fingers through her hair and her bangs cast a shadow on her face, like leaves. It's a simple drive, but traffic is a force. Some people don't like the subway. She points that out in Japanese. She looks bored, pulls her skirt down to mid-thigh as she sits. Can't be older than 30. She's not a bad person, just looks tired. Irritable. Angry. There's something about her.

He pulls up to her stop, sees a man with a leather jacket and a kid standing out of the way of walking pedestrians. She throws him a few $100 bills and hops out of the car. The man doesn't appear to be the father, just a friend; she puts her hand  on his shoulder, thanks him for watching the kid. She takes the boy's hand. Walks away.

There's a twig in her hair.