John glances over at Martin, a little surprised. He's either been crying or almost-crying this whole time, so the sudden burst of good sense isn't what he was expecting. But it's true, and he looks to Mr. Keane for his answer — an answer that makes his stomach clench like a fist.

It still doesn't make sense, and he still shies away from the idea that it just won't, no matter who they ask. Mr. Keane's story of turning a corner in America and ending up here sounds made up, like something out of a book.

Except, the little voice in his head tells him, a book can take you away from where you used to be.

John blinks, then gives his head a short, angry shake. It's not the same. He didn't do anything. He didn't fall down a rabbit hole or climb in a wardrobe, and he didn't open the wrong book, either. He's not stupid enough to just believe whatever some man in a café tells him.

So he turns, hiking up the waistband of his pants with one hand as he marches the little distance to one of the occupied tables. "Excuse me," he says, drawing the gaze of the woman sitting there. "What city is this?"

The woman blinks down at him, her face crumpling in some mixture of concern and confusion over what she sees. "Darrow," she replies, as if it should be obvious. She pulls in a breath like she's about to say something else, but John turns away, back towards Martin and Mr. Keane.

"I've never heard of Darrow," he says once he's back beside Martin, "and I've read a lot of books."