Loups-Garous by Natsuhiko Kyôgoku Page B

unspoken meaning that was implied.
    She tried viewing the word in English. Still, she recognized words by spelling, which vexed her. At wit’s end, she switched to Arabic.
    Then, suddenly she didn’t understand anything. The middle-aged man with brown hair or anyone from any country. She didn’t know what they were saying.
    They showed picture after picture of young girls.
    They were explained with words she’d never seen before.
    These must be victims. Judging from the age of these girls they couldn’t be perpetrators. Their clothing looked unfamiliar to her, meaning they could have been of foreign nationality. Yet their faces looked recognizable, meaning they must have been Japanese.
    These were children from a really long time ago.
    If I were murdered, I wonder if I’d appear foreign to people looking at me in the future .
    More familiar scenes on her monitor.
    Though surrounded by incomprehensible words, the images were clearly taken from the area where Hazuki grew up.
    However, it was only for a split second that the images were familiar. The footage soon took on a morbid cast. These were probably images from the murder investigation of the local killings—under the North-South Line overpass—Mio had been talking about, which was more accurately said to be taking place under the Central North-South Line directly adjacent to her neighborhood.
    Hazuki could point out on a map where this was but had never seen it herself. This broadcast was the first time she’d seen it.
    They went back to showing headshots.
    These must be of the latest victim .
    It was a boy. Hazuki tried to remember his name but couldn’t for some reason. No, it was because she hadn’t ever known it.
    This was a foreigner too.
    It was because of the Arabic writing on the screen.
    In any case this was a language from a world Hazuki had nothing to do with, she reasoned.
    She looked at her monitor.
    Four fifty-one pm and twenty seconds.
    It had been at least five hours since she connected to the area center cable. She’d long surpassed the suggested amount of time for connectivity. Or rather, Hazuki’s group had been instructed not to spend more than two hours at a time on work.
    Hazuki put her monitor on sleep mode and got up from her chair.
    Dinner should be ready now.
    She left her room and went down the hall.
    In the dining area was, as expected, a neatly laid-out meal.
    She was four when they pulled her out ten years ago. Hazuki had been eating this same kind of meal every day in this room ever since. Her foster dad was a busy man who only came home about once a month. She no longer had a caretaker, so she was frequently alone.
    She wasn’t hungry.
    She drew water from the faucet and drank one glass. She felt full.
    Whether Hazuki decided to eat or not, every morning the dining table would be set for breakfast. The home helper sent over by the security center was very conscientious, correct, taciturn.
    She thought of throwing away the food. She knew it would be a waste, but if she left it, there would be an ordeal later. If you left a meal out twice without touching it, the security center automatically notified a counselor.
    Then they’d start sending you all these messages, and pay visits, notify your caretaker, and generally create a bother.
    She wasn’t without a caretaker, but what would they make of this kind of behavior? They might bring her to a medical caretaker. If you were under sixteen and determined to have an eating disorder, they would abruptly cart you out to a rehabilitation center.
    This diagnosis was apparently made through a medical interview conducted via another monitor. If you answered the questions poorly, it wouldn’t matter if you were healthy—they would declare you ill. Conversely, you could be suffering from a grave illness but answer the questions correctly, and the monitor would not diagnose you.
    Unlike other illnesses, psychological ones like eating