had been intruding in there while he was out made him feel like he was losing his mind. But as much antiseptic as he used, the thick sense of an “other” wouldn’t seem to go away. The next night, Kousaka wore a coat, donned latex gloves on both hands, put on a disposable face mask, and placed disinfecting sheets and spray in his bag. Carefully checking the lock, he opened the door with a feeling of hopelessness. It had been a long time since he’d left his holy ground past sunset. The air outside was piercingly cold, and his face and ears stung. He chose to wear a suit so as not to make Hijiri Sanagi wary. Most people would be, if a stranger talked to them out of the blue. Even moreso at night. At times like these, a suit could give people a sense of relief. Kousaka was given this thought by taking into account his own experience last night. He came to a stop on a sidewalk outside the train station. A small crowd had formed on the side of the road. Peeking over their shoulders, he saw the onlookers were circled around a street performer. The performer was a man in his thirties, with a suitcase in front of him serving as a pedestal, on which marionettes danced. The man was making full use of all his fingers to control two marionettes at once. He’s dexterous, Kousaka admired. A nearby cassette player played background music, “The Lonely Goatherd.”