Free Brave Story by Miyuki Miyabe Page B

bulletproof vest, and a gun in a shoulder holster.
    The only thing he spied under his bed was a lone dust bunny—a guerilla soldier who had somehow evaded his mother’s despotic cleaning tactics, unexpectedly discovered and forced to surrender.
    “I’m not hiding,” the girl’s voice giggled from nowhere.
    Wataru stood up and slowly moved back to his chair. His heart shrank to the size of a ping-pong ball and ricocheted around his body, leaving a cold hollow in his chest.
    “Where are you?” Wataru asked quietly.
    It was weird. He couldn’t pinpoint the direction her voice was coming from. It didn’t seem to be coming from the ceiling, or the walls, from in front or behind him, or from the floor. It resonated in his head, right where his own voice should be, but distinctly different.
    “I’m not hiding,” the voice said in a sing-song, “but you can’t find me, either. I mean, it doesn’t make any sense to look for something that isn’t hiding. Why do the things people search for need to be hidden? Do they search for things because they’re hidden, or are things hidden because they’re searching?”
    Wataru scowled and, for lack of a better direction, looked up at the ceiling when he answered. “What are you? What are you talking about?”
    “I’m right beside you,” answered the voice.
    Wataru’s eyes opened wide. If there was a ghost in the room he wanted to grab his camera and take a picture of it. He sprang from his chair, flung open his door, and sprinted to the living room, the door slamming shut behind him. The family television was happily singing the latest catchy jingle for no one’s benefit. He didn’t see Kuniko anywhere. She had to be taking a bath—she always left the TV on when she was taking a bath.
    Wataru knew there was a disposable camera in the drawer next to the couch. His parents had bought it for a family trip to the zoo last month. There were twenty shots on the roll, but, in classic fashion, they had taken only three or four.
    Wataru yanked open the drawer. There it was! Camera in hand, he ran back to his room.
    Wait. He couldn’t just charge in there and start snapping pictures blindly. He pressed his back to the wall next to the closed door, waiting until his breath returned to normal. He was an FBI man again. And this time, Special Agent Mitani was on his own, without any backup. This would be a solo mission. Gently, he turned the doorknob and began to push. The door opened an inch, then a foot. He slid inside without making a sound.
    Holding his right arm with the camera behind his back, Wataru leaned against the door to close it. The fugitive hadn’t noticed—maybe. This vicious criminal was wearing a special invisiwave-emitting suit—or something. That sounded silly, but the point was, she wasn’t visible to the naked eye. Heck of a time to forget the infrared goggles, Agent Mitani.
    Taking a deep breath, Wataru whipped out the camera from behind his back and triggered the shutter, an agent squeezing off a shot from his handgun.
    Or not. He had forgotten to wind the film.
    That was the problem with disposable cameras. Whoever took the last picture was supposed to wind the film right afterward, and they never did.
    Well, the cat was out of the bag now. Wataru wound the film like a madman and pressed the shutter button again. He spun around the room, taking shot after shot. His mind was totally focused. He photographed the ceiling, the space under his bed, the shadow of his desk chair. He took photos behind him and he took them squatting down. Not a corner of the room was missed. No comforter was left unturned.
    The camera ran out of film. Wataru wiped off the sweat that had beaded on the tip of his nose and took a seat on the floor. It hadn’t been particularly strenuous, but he found himself breathing hard just the same.
    “Even if you didn’t get a good shot, you can always just lie and say you did,” the girl’s voice teasingly suggested. It sounded like she