PRETEND PRINCESS
The clouds had parted, and Tokyo lay spread before the morning sun in gold leaf on asphalt: a promise, or a start, or maybe both.
The driver, Kenji, came scrambling into the front seat. I gave him the address I'd received:
"Help me find Mr. Yugo—ah, Yuki Roman. Give me his latest address in Tōkyō."
Kenji's phone beeped. In fifteen minutes, he nodded, gave me the sheet.
"Got it, sir?"
"Yes. And. and I want food—lots. Send all of it. Sushi, ramen, wagashi, fruit—send it in a basket. Best quality. Today's for Yuki."
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