Dances With The Daffodils

The weather here is strange. It's warm — not unbearably — but dry. So dry that it feels like a lump of sand is gathering at the back of your throat.

After leaving the airport, I found my way to a bus station. From there I spent two hours cramped in the back of a tiny coach and spent more money than I wanted to, but it got me here, a place where the other champion is just minutes away.

The town is small, empty, and halfway between the lights of LA and the wine of Santa Maria. It's a hot, parched place with brick buildings and cracked roads. It's hard to imagine there are many visitors.

Still, a few others took the coach with me, mostly travelling businessmen with dark rings under their eyes and empty briefcases. They stand at the bus stop now, tapping their phones and searching for directions. Feeling out of place, I make a quick get-away and head straight for the tourist centre across the road.

It isn't much different to the rest of the town. The centre's lights are yellow and a dusty air conditioner sits in the corner making more noise than it should. I enter and browse around before heading to the counter. There's not much to buy unless you like novelty key-rings or bobbleheads of the president.

Manning the shop is a pudgy woman wearing an ill-fitting purple shirt. She didn't lift a finger when I came in and instead flicks her eyes across her phone. I wander up and lean on the counter.

'Er, hello?'

She looks up without moving her head. 'What do you want?' she asks. 'We ain't got no alcohol here, kid. And if we did, I wouldn't give it to you.'

Alcohol? Who would come here for alcohol?

'I'm looking for a hotel,' I say.

Finally, she drops her phone and looks me up and down. 'Hmm. That's a funny accent you got. Where you from, kid?'

'Sweden,' I say. Best not tell the whole truth.

She leans forward. 'So what's a Swedish boy doing here in Koda Beach? Running from someone?'

My jaw clenches. 'Just visiting family.'

'Hmm.' She stands straight and heads into the back. 'Whatever.' She continues talking as she searches for leaflets. 'I'm warning you, there ain't many hotels in these parts that take walk-ins.'

'That's fine,' I call. All I need is a bed for the night. I can find somewhere better in the morning.

While I wait, I look around the shop. A laminated poster sits next to a calendar full of pictures of the president. It's stuck to the wall with a rusty pin and shows a picture of a girl about my age with a big grin and electric blue hair — Leah Martin. At first, I thought it was a missing poster but it's advertising a memorial in the local school gym.

Friends and family and local residents welcome to come and pay their respects. Bring a candle.

I wonder who hung it up in here — a place specifically not for the locals. I sigh. The memorial isn't until next week, but something about it nags at me. If the other champion is my age, I'll bet they go to the same school. It could be a clue. Before the woman returns, I grab a piece of paper from the desk and make a quick note. She comes back just as I stuff it into my bag.

'This is all I got,' she says, sliding over a pamphlet.

It's for a crummy hotel on the edge of town just ten minutes from here. I thank her and start to leave.

'Hey,' she says.

I pause.

'You ain't family of that girl, are you? The one that died?'