That evening, Malibu stood on Market Street and watched a commuter car approach. As it pulled to the curb, it became clear that the number nine was stenciled in black ink on the back passenger door. The number was extra large, over two feet high. It was so big, it looked to be pulsating. Sometimes you just have to shake your head. Malibu hesitated for a moment before seizing the handle, opening the door, and plopping down on the back seat.
“Fisherman’s Wharf,” she said as she dropped two shekels into the coin slot.
The car had a thick Parisian accent and spit back a surly response, which Malibu ignored. Her mind was still locked on the cottage, where it had been focused for hours. It was like the home’s voice was carried in the wind, a siren song that irresistibly pulled her toward it.
