I can't find a taxi. Rather, I can find taxis, plenty of taxis, but not one without someone already in it. I pace up and down the street, thinking about going into the glowing convenience store one more time to buy a snack or kill the monotony of unsuccessfully trying to hail a cab.

I pass a soba restaurant and contemplate stopping in for some noodles. It's getting cold, wet and rotten. A woman is standing out front, and I approach her to ask where the best place to catch a taxi is just as a taxi pulls up and she speeds away into the night. I look at my cell phone. It's dead, and I don't even bother looking for a payphone.

The streets glisten. I make my way back to campus, figuring my odds are better for tracking down a taxi. The light turns green and a row of taxis speed by. I look in the backseat window and see a foreigner. Robin Walker. Another taxi behind him passes by. In the backseat sits Shigeru Miyamoto. And yet another taxi passes by. The backseat is empty.

I extend my hand and dart after it, sliding into the warm back seat. The driver offers me tissues and a piece of green-tea candy. It is exceptionally sweet.

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