We arrive in Flagstaff late and nothing is open. The hotel clerk reminds of of the continental breakfast in the morning, then points us to a vending machine full of candy bars and suggests the bar down the street might have chips. I empty my bag of snacks on a table in the lobby, then Gus and I divide everything up before we retire to our rooms with a wave.
In my room, I snack on beef jerky and doodle in my notebook. Where did the Owl book come from, anyway? Gus never got into where he got it. I was too excited to have something to do, it never crossed my mind to ask where this came from. Of all places in the world, why would that book have landed at a small no-name book shop in a tourist town in the middle of Colorado? Was it brought by someone with nefarious intent? Is Gus not who I think he is?
I lay down, but can’t shut down my brain.
This is all ridiculous. I mean, the whole thing. Not just this moment of rumination. I know I keep saying this, but this entire thing feels off. Like it’s not really happening. Like I’m inventing drama to fill a void. To give myself an adventure because I have never, ever been close to adventuring anywhere. How cliche it is that I do so through some secret magical society. That’s so like me. Predictable. What if that’s the case? What if none of this is real, and I’m just following fictional breadcrumbs? Is that so bad if I’m having fun doing it? But then what’s the deal with Gus? Why is he following along–leading, even–if he doesn’t also believe. I can’t be delusional if he’s in on it, right?
I wake up in the morning on top of the blanket, laying sideways across the bed. The pillows are all on the floor. I think I slept a total of an hour at most, but my stomach’s growling so I force myself up and into the shower.
When I get to the continental breakfast, I find Gus sitting at a corner table eating a floppy wet pancake and drinking coffee out of a thick white mug that looks heavy enough to be a weapon. The handle is so thick he can barely fit his spindly fingers through it. He smiles as I arrive at the table with a paper bowl filled with stale cereal and the same cup of coffee he has. It smells burnt in a way that only an industrial-sized catering coffee maker can produce.
“I was thinking we’d start at the museum,” Gus says, cautiously. He must notice the cavernous bags beneath my eyes.
“Yeah,” it takes me a second to speak, as though I’ve forgotten how, “I’d like to find Alexis and talk to her. The museum doesn’t open until 11 though, maybe we should swing by the newspaper first to see if Richard’s there?”
“Yeah sure,” Gus says, smiling. “You know,” he continues, pointing at his floppy pancake, “continental breakfasts are traditionally supposed to be light affairs. It was a mid-19th century British thing that referred to a very un-British breakfast. Anyway,” he gestures at his plate, “most of this food isn’t really traditional. It’s weird they have it here, must be an Arizona thing.”
“Ah.” I’m never really sure what to say when he goes on these asides. He has all this useless knowledge stuck in his brain and he has to share it with someone. It’s as endearing as it is obnoxious, depending on the circumstances and tact.
