Drinking nasty coffee from a plastic cup in a commuter train, I tried to distract myself, but it was useless. Every time I closed my eyes or peered at the opposite back of a train seat I saw my odd couple and heard their lies. I bit a knuckle of my index finger and made a wry face, imagining their deceitful faces.

My memories about last two years were as dull as they were: unwanted domestic chores of a single person; study at the university and a repetitive part-time job there; thesis; small talks with fellow students and colleges. Quite the opposite, the reminiscences of the hometown resembled a long run TV sitcom I had been watching for years. All decorations, all details seemed too bright and unreal, as if somebody tried to make them realistic in order to persuade an inexperienced audience. Still everything looked terrifically cliché. One might identify a typical pattern of every sitcom: happy family and annoying relatives with minor issues, devoted friends with their problems and funny pet peeves, cake days, winter celebrations and insane hunting for presents, summer holidays, school festivals, camping, parties with no parents, dates… They were like perfect episodes for a certain traditional occasion.

But what was actually between them?

The more I was trying to think about it, the vaguer and blurrier my memories were getting. My life was like a life of a big show fan who can quote every character and piously kept posters with their images.

I stood on the platform feeling lost, for I was certain I had never set my foot on it. I looked around: the railway station and the platform resembled pictures from a tourist brochure. In bright memories I bought a train ticket in a terminal and a sweet bun in a small bakery nearby not so long ago, but my dull memories didn’t support that information. Lack of sleep made me giddy and sluggish. I longed for my bed in a little sunny room with dim yellowish stars on the ceiling and a small picture of a gnarled-looking cat I secretly drew on a wall when I was a child. My old bedroom was on the second floor, but the house was so small that curious branches of a young lilac almost touched thin banisters of a dilapidated balcony nobody dared to step on. I clenched my teeth and took my bag.

A six year old girl was looking at me out of a window. She smiled and waved to me friendly, her dark brown curls jumping wildly. I noticed that she looked like me when I was her age. The kitchen window was big and it stood wide open. I could smell a sweet apple pie and rich coffee. The whole family was there. Father was reading a newspaper; Mother was toiling at the stove, while a lovely child was still smiling joyfully at me. I winced: so typical, so patriarchal, so much like my family.

I hated the girl being so nice. My countenance was grave if not wicked. That was my house, my kitchen, my table, and my apple pie! Who were those happytogethers? Did my parents rent the house while they were abroad?

Certainly not. They would have warned me.

By the end of the day the feeling of fatigue reached me for good. I was running like crazy from one place to another. I visited my friends’ and relatives’ apartments, houses, offices, and other places they might have been. But every time I was there, the door was opened by strangers. Offices and other working places existed, but none of the staff knew people I wanted to talk to. A park in the center of the town was one of the most favorite places among locals. It was almost impossible not to meet at least one familiar face there. But not that day, of course!

One more place was left. I felt I left it last of all on purpose. I was so scared not to see Tania and was masochistically milking the moment. I was paddling hesitantly towards her house when I saw a diminutive figure standing at the gate. I was like an abandoned child jumping every time when a similar parental figure emerged in a doorway. Yet it could be she: same straight black blunt bob, same pinkish cardigan, same tiny backpack with a stupid pendent hanging like a voodoo doll or a hunting trophy. Hope made me stronger; I strode quickly to her. Without asking or calling, I slightly touched her shoulder.

I should have said something before…

She startled and turned. Nothing in common: the details that seemed so familiar looked absolutely different when I stood so close.

“I’m really sorry. I took you for my friend. She used to live here,” I nodded in the direction of the house with white flowerpots on the porch.

“That’s OK. I don’t want to upset you, but you must have found the wrong house.”

You are already upsetting me.

“Why?” I didn’t expect her to continue the conversation after having forced her to jump like a bouncy ball.

“I’ve been living here all my life. The house was projected and built by my grandfather,” she proudly proclaimed that.

I put a fake smile on my face feeling the muscles stretching, “You don’t say so! I have not been here for a while. I’d better check with my map app or ask my school friends to give me her number or login,” I didn’t want to continue a useless nonversation. I want nobody to know about my troubles especially madam “my-granddad-made-it”. I pretended to feel my smartphone in a pocket.

“Maybe I can help you? I know the neighbourhood perfectly,” she kindly proposed her help.

“No, thank you,” with those dry words I hurried away, trying not to break down.

“Good luck! I hope you’ll find her soon!” I didn’t answer or turned. Her words were like a mockery. I hated everything in Fake Town. Or maybe it was me who was the only fake there.

The park was empty when I returned back. It made me nervous. I used to love solitude till the day before. Every single time I thought I was alone in the street a shudder touched my body, and I tried inevitably to find any idle or indifferent passers-by whose presence proved that I was not in the mirror or elsewhere.

The wooden bench had no back and was as old as dinosaurs’ fossils: disgustingly yellowish with ruts and checks. Sitting on it and watching day giving its way to night, I was suspiciously calm for a person who literally had lost all her dear ones and had no idea where to find them.

In the shade of an old fashioned dustbin I saw a rat. He stood like a tiny pole slowly swaying from side to side looking at me attentively. He was, beyond all doubt, a pet rat with funny Dumbo ears on both sides of his grey head adorned with a jaunty white blaze between black mustard seeds of his eyes.

“Come here,” I clicked my tongue, but he didn’t stir. I rummaged in my bag to get some train sandwich leftovers when a ridiculous idea hit my head. I opened my list of contacts: nothing. I closed my eyes trying to focus on memories about Mom and Dad, conjuring their faces. As if by magic, telephone numbers and emails appeared out of nowhere. With palpitating heart I called Mom (fearing they could disappear again). She answered quickly.

“Hello, dear!” I heard her tender voice. “Are you with Tania? Did she come yesterday? Give her the phone, I want to say “hello”.”

“No, Mom. She didn’t make it. Some family plans, I suppose,” I replied absently and emotionless (As it turned out, I was not prepared to talk to her).

“Oh, I’m so sorry dear. I can’t believe you are still leaving there all alone…” she started singing her same old song, “…the girl must have a good excuse to postpone her visit. I know, bunny, you’ve been waiting for her.”

“Mom, relax! That’s not about Tania. I’m calling you to ask about Rosie.” Uncomfortable pause. I was getting tensed up.

“Rosie, dear?”

“Mom, are you on board of the ISS? I’m telling you about our old rat. Do you remember her? You know, a furry rodent with a bare tail on her fanny that has been living with us for almost three years,” I was surprised at my own ironic tone. “I’ve been worrying about her since you and Dad are abroad. Did you leave her with Aunt Veronica?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! Of course we gave her to Aunt Veronica. Who else would agree to keep someone’s rat at home?” she said, lifting her voice.

“Copy, Mission Commander! Mom, is Dad with you?”

“Hey, bunny!” Dad’s voice was amiable as it always had been.

We talked about some good troubles and trifles: weather, shopping for souvenirs, hotel room, and local food. I promised to call them as soon as possible, wished them a nice trip, and said “good bye” one last time, for we had no rat named Rosie, and we had no Aunt named Veronica. They didn’t pass “Terminator 2” test.

I looked straight ahead seeing nothing, mentally floating in senselessness that was filling me up to the brim. They might have picked up the infection abroad that damaged their brain and made them accept my nonsense; I could have picked it too and lie unconscious in a hospital ward. I pinched myself. Nothing happened.

You could make various explanations but, frankly speaking, you are regretting having taken the red pill that opened your eyes to the truth.

Night was slowly falling on the park producing gloomy and sinister atmosphere. The street lights, like magic stones on sorcerers’ staffs, were glowing in a warm haze.

I had no plan B. I was sure blondie and marigold were just swindlers. I imagined spending that evening nestling in Dad’s big armchair with a cup of tea. But not in the park as a teen runaway holding a sports bag like a teddy bear, regretting her silly decision.

Is it a high time to go to a police station? Or I can return to my apartment and forget about everything and sink into sweet oblivion one more time.

Both ideas cast me down. I’ve never called the police in my life and didn’t have a clue of what to expect (everything I knew about them I gained in movies and books), and I didn’t want to spend almost two hours in a wagon full of strangers with their pale faces in a cold artificial light just to welcome my empty room.

I totally forgot about Max and that’s why was so happy to see his incoming call and his face on a display. The moment he called my name I didn’t let him speak and told him everything (prudently omitting exceedingly mystical moments).

“Go to any safe public place and stay there. I’m on my way,” was his answer.