The Detachable Boy Read Online Free PDF Page B

floodplain of a carpark where there was air and sunlight. American air and American sunlight. I smiled and drank in my surroundings – the palms that lined the exit road, the haze of smog, and in the distance the sound of sirens and a city skyline.
    I’d made it. I’d actually made it. I wished Ravi and his mega smile were there with me to celebrate my triumph, to dance, to punch the air, to shout and sing . . .
    ‘Are you okay?’ came a voice.
    I stopped dancing to see the man with the huge moustache – Clifford – squinting at me with puzzled eyes.
    ‘Ya didn’t get burned or nothing, did ya?’ he said.
    ‘No, I’m . . . I’m fine, actually,’ I said, and wished for the life of me that I sounded more like a local.
    ‘Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?’ Clifford said.
    I shrugged and began backing away. ‘Don’t think so.’
    Clifford stepped after me. ‘Don’t you work down in Records?’
    ‘No, not me. Must have me confused with somebody else.’
    My little foot felt loose and I knew that if I had to run, I’d be caught.
    ‘Kinda young to be working down in Records. How old is ya, anyhoo?’
    ‘I’m . . . I . . .’
    At that moment, a hulking, fluorescent-yellow fire truck appeared at the entrance gate, with lights flashing but no siren. Clifford froze in his tracks. I kept backing away.
    Clifford turned to the crowd. ‘It’s okay, people, the cavalry have arrived!’
    Several people cheered. By the time Clifford turned around again, I’d almost made it to the Exit gate, striding and limping and whispering words of encouragement to my foot. ‘You can do it, little kicker, hang in there.’
    Finally, I pushed through the pedestrian turnstile and on to the roadside. At last I was . . . I was . . .
    I watched the cars streaming past on the road in front of me and felt incredibly small. Now what? I didn’t know which way to go or where to even start looking for directions. I felt hopelessness settling on my shoulders, threatening to drive me into the ground, threatening to crush me into embarrassingly small pieces.
    A yellow taxicab mounted the kerb and skidded quietly on the grass by my feet. The driver leaned across and opened the passenger door.
    ‘You look like you need a cab,’ she bawled over the traffic noise. She wore dark glasses and her hair looked as though it had been styled with high doses of static electricity.
    I leaned towards the open door. ‘I’m not exactly sure where I . . .’
    ‘Get in,’ she said. Her smile was warm but there was no room for negotiation in the tone of her voice.
    I did as I was told.
    The cabby leaned across me and slammed my door.
    ‘Now, where are you headed, little man?’
    ‘I’m not exactly . . .’
    ‘Give me something to work with here. You’re going home?’
    ‘No. Not exactly . . .’
    The woman sighed. ‘Not exactly. I guess that’s a start. So you’re going to school? Where?’
    ‘I don’t have any American money. I only have Australian dollars.’
    I drew the wad of notes from my jacket pocket.
    ‘Whoah!’ the cabby said. ‘That’s okay, I’m sure we can work something out. Where to? That’s the ten-thousand-dollar question.’
    ‘The Lost Head Diner. Do you know where that is?’
    The woman shook her head. ‘Don’t know that one. Got a street address?’
    ‘One thousand five hundred Penny Silvania Avenue.’
    The cabby squinted for a moment. ‘Nope.’
    ‘Carcass Springs.’
    The cabby squinted again. ‘Nope.’
    ‘In Arizona.’
    The cabby’s head clunked against her window in surprise. ‘Arizona?’
    I nodded.
    ‘Even that fat roll of notes in your pocket wouldn’t cover the fare for me to take you to Arizona, little man. That’s two day’s drive. You’re in LA. California.’
    She took a map from beneath her seat and unfolded it over the steering wheel. ‘We’re here,’ she said, and pointed to a spot on the bottom left corner. ‘And you want to go here.’ She scrunched the unfolded map into her