After the confrontation with Second Avenue was over, Austin and I marched past Elinore Street and a dozen supermarkets until I started gagging the alcoholic taste from earlier.

"Jesus Christ!" I moaned. "What the fuck is that shit? It tastes like Joseph's cooking!"

Austin, who was sighing at my displeasure, scolded: "well, maybe you shouldn't have drunken that bottle of whiskey."

Coughing a few times, I glared in his direction.

"Maybe, you should stop being a pussy for once and grow some goddamn balls."

Austin raised his eyebrows at me.

"You're seriously giving me advice?" he baffled. "Jack, I can't even manage to throw a punch, or kick a soccer ball."

Although my ears deafen at the constant screeching of congested traffic, I managed to pick up Austin's constantly whining.

"Oh, boo-fucking-hoo, " I grunted. "Clyde just called you a pussy back there."

"So what?" Austin groaned. "I am not as strong as you."

I gazed at him for a moment.

"I'm not strong, " I say, arguing. "I was lucky."

"You were lucky?" scoffed Austin. "No one had the balls to say that in their faces."

"Yeah." I snorted, kicking a nearby pebble with my feet. "It's a good thing Clyde and Skippy didn't carry guns because I would have gotten shot in the face."

"But they didn't," reminded Austin.

"Next time they will." I murmured. 

My messy hair bun quickly loosened by the swift breeze, but luckily, it didn't fell apart.

Noticing this, I thought about putting my hair into a casual updo, but because my hands felt lazy, I decided to do it when I get home.

Moving across the outskirts of New York, Austin looked at me then asked: "I know you hate this question, but since we have the jar, wouldn't be best if we return it to the police?"

Burying my hands into my pockets, I stubbornly shake my head no.

"Why?"

I wait for a gaggle of girls in chic fashion clothes walk by us, then resumed the conversation.

"Because Joseph is onto us," I explain. "This morning, he told me that he and his friends discovered tire tracks at the park."

"Tire tracks?" Austin repeated, completely shocked by my answer. "You mean my mom's—"

I nodded quietly.

Gritting his teeth, he asked: "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"I didn't want you to add it to the list of reasons why don't want to go to Australia with me."

"Oh, now you tell me?" asked Austin in a pissed off tone.

Burying my hands into my pockets, I add: "Drastic times call for desperate measures, Austin. If we give the ashes to Warren, bad things will happen."

He looked at me in sheer confusion.

"What?" I ask, squinting my eyes in his way.

"It's desperate times, " Austin corrected.

"Huh?"

My friend released a sad sigh, then repeats in a condescending tone: "it's desperate times call for desperate measures, not drastic times. No one fucking says that."

"Whatever, " I groan. "look, if you don't want to help me with this thing—"

That's when Austin politely stopped me.

"Jack, I am with you all the way." he insisted. "If you think we need to go to Australia, then let's go to Australia."

I looked at him quizzically.

"Really?" I ask.

Austin nodded.

"Why?"

"Because no matter how hard I try to avoid your hurricane of chaos," he admitted. "You are still going to make me go with you."

I gave him a snort.

"Oh haha, " I say, rolling my eyes. "Very funny, Austin."

"Come on, " Austin smirked. "If this is important to you, I won't tell anyone about last night."

Surprised by his change in attitude, I crossed my arms in disbelief.

"Good," I say.

With confidence and audacity, I take Austin's hand then headed downtown, where a window sign of a small, old bookstore grabbed our attention. 

Behind the glass, are varieties of paperback or hardcovered books sitting on their displays. Some were new, but others looked as if they might have been eaten by a rabid dog. For instance, I noticed the torn paperback version of The Hunger Games, sat idly on the right, just beside Nicola Yoon's Everything, Everything.

From the millions of white pages to the soft back cover,  The Hunger Games novel is intact. Everything, except for the front cover, which was angrily ripped away from the book itself.

Replacing the book cover was its wrecked title page, filled with nothing but doodles scribbled in red ink.

"What do you see, Jack?" asked Austin peering through the dirty window. "Is there anyone in the store?" 

"I see people having no taste in Literature," I stated. "Why, what's wrong?"

"The place looks as if it never opened in years, " he mumbled. "Look at the door."

Flicking my eyes at the front entrance, I was surprised to see that the glass hasn't been washed. Bug slime, dust, and dirt covered up a bright green sign with golden letters spelling out the word, Welcome, All Lovely Readers! hoping that it might lure customers.

However, when I looked through the dirty glass, I noticed three old people in a stuffy room, wandering around towers of dusty novels, puzzle boxes, knick-knacks, and paddywhacks growing on the hardwood floor.

Beyond the dreary gray walls are black shelves filled with books. Different sizes, colors, and shapes filled my eyes with wonder and curiosity.

Even though I was disgusted by the store's lack of charm, I can imagine spending endless hours exploring the young adult section. There, I could pick up a few Harry Potter books, sit on the fragile chairs, and read until my brain explodes.

So far, I almost finished with Goblet of Fire and the Half-Blood Prince, but I couldn't find the last book, Deathly Hallows, anywhere in certain libraries.

Austin insisted that I should watch the movie, but I refused.

Watching the movie will only spoil it for me; and besides, I hate novel-based films.

I believed that if people are fans of books—like Harry Potter, for instance—then a movie should accurately portray sceneries, characters, and quotes from a best-selling novel.

If not, then what's the point in bringing books to television screens? The fans would either get confused or stop reading the book altogether.

I tried telling this to Austin, but I kinda lost track in time.

Speaking of Austin, he noticed me looking at the bookstore then asked in a disgusted tone: "Are you seriously thinking about going in there?"

"I did," I said, meeting his eyes. "but the bookstore looks very promising."

"Promising?" he repeats, jerking his thumb at the bookstore's sign. "It looks as if Pennywise the Clown slept in there."

I gave him an eye roll.

"First of all, Pennywise sleeps in the sewers," I said as a matter of fact. "and second, I don't want to walk thirty more miles to find a library. Neither do you."

Austin sighs at my explanation.

He didn't completely understand why I wanted to explore in a trashy bookstore, but his feet yearned for a place to rest.

"Okay, fine," muttered Austin. "I guess you have a point." 

Smiling, I swung the glass door open then stepped inside.

* * * *

RING! 

Attached with red silk are tiny silver bells rocking furiously near the door entrance.

As Austin and I entered the bookstore, dust particles float lazily in the air, making the place seem like a snowy wonderland. Along with the snow-like dust comes the unstable perfume of sweet-smelling roses dispersing inside the cramped room.

Footsteps walked along the scratched up hardwood floor when three old women with scoured eyes looked for some reading material.

Shockingly, they were all identical: the women have white powdery wigs, thick, purple glasses and long, creamy yellow dresses covering their pale ankles.

Wrinkles slithered across their worn faces, arms, and every crevice of their sagging skin. Pencil thin eyebrows formed squiggly lines, as the old women studied the book cover intently, fearing it would move on its own.

Above us is a white ceiling with cracks as thick as a chocolate chip cookie. Passing through the small hardwood trail, Austin found a few Spider-Man comic books on a pile—just on top of the two, large brown tables, which stood on either side of the store. 

I trained my eyes for any signs of a manager, assistant, or the cashier who works in this place, but so far, there no one has ever set foot through the appalling glass door.

Except for Austin, three old women, and of course, yours truly.

Picking up a hardcover copy of Paper Towns from the book stack, Austin opened it and read a few chapters.

His brown eyes stayed focus on the texture of the dark yellow pages; both of his thumbs rubbed gently on the inked words, trying to convey their touch.

While he was reading, I told Austin my movie strategies.

"First things first," I say proudly. "We have our very own movie title, but how are we going to start this movie off?"

"Come up with a badass introduction,"  explained Austin, slowly turning to another page.

"Like what?" I inquire.

He pondered for a moment, looking away from the page he had read.

"I am thinking that we should start a scene where there is like, a crazy thunderstorm?" I suggested.

Placing Paper Towns back in its stack, Austin snorted in my direction.

"A crazy thunderstorm?" he repeated. "That's your fucking idea?"

I gave him a long stare.

"Fuck you, dude." I retorted. "I am not an artist, unlike Leonardo Dicaprio."

Austin crossed his arms at me.

"It's Leonardo Da Vinci, Jack." he corrected.

"Whatever!" I groan. "The point is, I am thinking that we should start a movie with heavy rain, sad music, and killer details."

"Although, that crazy thunderstorm idea is completely stupid," began Austin. "I think rain will be a good backdrop. But where do we begin this story?"

"That's a good question," I murmured.

Reaching into his backpack, he pulled out his medium-sized sketchbook then handed it to me.

Other than it's beneficial size, the cover has an eerie dark blue tone with pencil streak marks scribbling all over it. Holding the pages together are small, black ringlets.

In addition to the pages, they seemed to be entirely filled with Austin's drawings—not that he ever shows them to people of course.

Not to his moms or even to his teachers.

However, when we were in third grade, Austin would show me pencil drawings of my favorite actors: Clint Eastwood, Samuel Jackson, and Liam Neeson quoting lines from their action movies. 

"What's this?" I ask curiously, opening the book.

Turning to the first page, I witnessed an amazing charcoal drawing of a young girl—probably fifteen or sixteen—staring at a tombstone labeling R.I.P. Teresa St. Marie 1960-2018.

Based on the lack of color on her wavy hair, I guessed that the girl was a blonde; her clothing consisted of a somber black dress, a black handbag, and matching black pumps.

What was surprising is that in the background is a solemn crowd, drenched from black raindrops. While the men in the picture wore suits and slacks, the women had on dresses, black pantyhose, and high heels.

All of them carried a black umbrella, except the teenage girl, who was smoking a joint.

"Holy shit," I murmured.

Scratching his head in embarrassment, Austin explained shyly, "yeah, I have been thinking about your ideas last night. So, while my moms were in bed, I drew up scenes, characters, and everything."

"Like a comic book?" I mumbled, turning another page.

It leads me to a scene where the crowd vanished, abandoning the girl in the pouring rain.

Glancing to another page, I saw a charcoal sketch of where the girl dropped her cigarette onto the ground, she crushes it with her foot, then walked away.

"Nice details," I say, examining the drawings. 

"Sorry, " he chuckled. "I guess I got carried away in the end."

But I politely shake my head.

"This is really good artwork, dude," I admitted.  "So, you're thinking that instead of using a script, you want us to do it based on your comic?"

"What do you think?" asked Austin.

I shrug my shoulders. "It's a good start to where we can hatch our ideas, but have you written anything for the actors to study?"

"You mean screenwriting?"

I nodded, politely handing his notebook back to him.

"No, I sort of forgot." he chuckled in embarrassment.

"That's fine, " I say, shrugging my shoulders again.

"How about we begin a scene...during a funeral?" Austin suggested. "One of the protagonist's closest relatives—let's say a mother for instance—died of an unexplained heart cancer?"

"Where is the father?" I ask, crossing my arms.

"He disappeared before the main character was born," explained Austin.

"Any other relatives?"

"Yeah,"  answered Austin. "We can say that the character lives with her grandparents."

I raise my left eyebrow at him. "Her?"

"Yeah, " he shrugged. "we are doing a film based on Elle Jones."

"What will be her name?"

"Billie St. Marie." his reply. "What do you think?"

"It's a good name, Austin," I responded cheerfully. "We should definitely use it."

We spend at least five hours wandering around the store to look for a map of Australia.

Rifling through worn pages, boxes, and books, I continued searching until Austin found a wrinkled map of the entire world.

"Hey Jack," said Austin, showing me the paper. "Check it out." 

The seven continents spread across from each other; large chunks of land swim in a sea of light blue water with names of oceans, cities, and directions scattering around it.

Inches away from Antartica was a small chunk of land with edges ripped apart, like pages from a textbook. Looking at it very closely, I noticed that the country's shape reminded me of a weird looking tooth.

Mountain ridges, rivers, and hot climates made their mark on the surface as my eyes studied nine, black, bold letters.

"Australia, " I said, eyeing the word carefully. "Where did you find it?"

Austin shuffled some books squeezed inside their shelves.

"I think it's somewhere in the Geography section," he replied. "It looks like it belonged to a book or something."

Examining it carefully, I say to Austin: "well, it's better than nothing. How much does it cost?"

He gives me an I-don't-know shrug.

Focusing my eyes around the cluttered store, I searched for the bookstore owner, but he or she was nowhere to be found.

In the meantime, the three old ladies walked out of the bookstore, leaving us to deal with dust bunnies and dirty floor.

Being a good kid, Austin reached into his pocket, takes out thirty-five dollars, and sets them on the counter.

"Let's go, " he says, looking in my direction. "I am pretty sure your dad is worried about you."

Worried? I wanted to scoff. Pissed off is more like it.

But regardless, I stretched my arms and followed Austin out of the bookstore.

As my heels clicked against the gray concrete, chills of nighttime air began slithering up my back.

In the meantime, I noticed a wave of dark brown, black, and solemn gray silently washed over the dimly lighted stars, like a powerful tsunami.

Crickets chirped soundly as they performed fluid leaps across my feet.

Smells of cold air flew through my nostrils, as my blistering hands rummage inside my jean pockets for warmth.

Austin, who was keeping close tabs on me, stared at the zipping cars driving across the road.

His hands were roaming freely in the cold air, and his brown hair fluttered into the breeze; however, somewhere in his mind is a concerned friend caring about my safety.

"So, Jack?" he started to ask.

"Yeah?"

"Speaking of your dad, " began Austin slowly. "I think he's a dangerous man."

I raise my eyebrow at him. "Because he's a pig?"

"No, " he replied. "It's just that there is...something off about him. I just want to you to be safe is all."

" You want to be my knight in shining armor?" I snort. "Worry about your parents, not mine."

"I am trying," insisted Austin, "but every time you and your dad get into an argument, I am afraid that you might get killed or something."

"Or something," I added. "listen, if you are so worried about me, why don't you think about what we equipment we are going to use for our film. Okay?"

"Okay," he says quietly.

After we reached home, Austin waved goodnight while I fished my purse for the keys, unlocked the door, and walked inside the kitchen.

Looking around, I can see the furniture covered in crumbs, the black mold growing in the kitchen sink, and the cabinet doors covered in something green and disgusting.

I let out an annoyed sigh.

Once again, Joseph is a lazy slob. I thought wearily.

I wanted to clean up his shit, but since it was almost past my bedtime, I decided to do it tomorrow.

Scaling up to my bedroom, my mind was set on taking a shower when I found Joseph sitting stiffly on my bed, gazing at me.

His salt and pepper hair tousled like Cool-Whip; he wears nothing, but a white threadbare tank top and black boxers.

Secured in Joseph's right hand, is a half-empty beer bottle.

Adjusting his weight on my mattress, Joseph takes a long drink from his beer, then asks me: "Jack, come over here for a second?" 

His body moved very sluggishly. Streaks of blood slithered through his tired eyes as he urged me to sit beside him.

Realizing he was drunk, I distanced myself from him then said in an exhausted tone: "Joseph, I am tired. I want to take a shower and go to bed."

Angrily, he takes a long sip of his beer then chucked the bottle inches away from my right arm.

As soon as it hit the walls, glass shards and trails of brown liquid splattered on the surface.

Jerking myself away from the unexpected attack, I find a drunken Joseph storming up to me, grabbing my hair, and shoving me onto the bed.

His brute strength caused my purse to slip off my shoulder and land on the floor with a quiet thud.

In the meantime, my entire legs became as weak as a pudding; brownish-blonde curls fell down my face when I noticed the frightened tears running down my cheeks.

Watching me from a distance, Joseph calmly sat down in front of me, slick back his hair, then using a menacing voice, the monster asked: "Where were you, Jacqueline Cassidy?"