There are, unfortunately, no non-memory connected books here. The one Link picks up seems like it might be promising - very similar to the first, a small paperback with a nine-by-nine square on the front - but it looks worn, with a prominent fold in the spine, discolored pages, and scuffs in the corners. It flips open on its own, though, just like all the rest.

Dustin flips to a fresh page in his book of sudoku puzzles. He hardly finds them difficult; a quick glance over the first one in the top left is all he needs to parse out the pattern and fill in the blanks, at least mentally. But he's found that doing them while riding the bus keeps people from bothering him as much. A teenager, alone, taking an interstate jaunt in the middle of the night with nothing but a backpack and a puzzle book, must fill some kind of subconscious niche that the other travelers are expecting. He's not too fussed with the process as long as it stops anyone from asking questions.

The man currently staring at him from across the isle is, apparently, an exception. He's wearing a tucked-in button-up and pressed slacks, and Dustin's caught flashes of a badge clipped to his belt. Interstate police, probably. He'd intentionally sat on the other end of the bus from him, but predictably, the man moved closer as soon as a spot opened up.

Dustin furrows his brow at the puzzle as he starts to methodically scribble in the numbers with a ballpoint pen. Maybe I'm reading too much into it.

The man clears his throat at him.

Or not. Dustin pretends not to notice, but he can't stop the little sigh of annoyance that makes his shoulders droop. That's the only sign the officer needs.

"You should get some sleep," he offers, keeping his voice low.

Dustin's gaze flickers around their immediate area to see if any of the others on the too-bright bus are paying attention. They're all trying to sleep, from the looks of it - something that he's sure the officer was waiting for before trying to talk to him.

"Not tired," Dustin mumbles back. His pen keeps scribbling away, finishing the current puzzle, pausing a moment, starting the next.

"Night owl?" Dustin doesn't dignify that question with a response, so the man keeps talking. "A bit of one myself. Stopped being able to pull all-nighters after college - never had a problem when I was your age, though."

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. The both of them jostle as the bus hits a bump in the road.

"How old are you, anyway?" asks the officer, casual. "Fourteen? Fifteen?"

Sixteen, Dustin thinks with an irritable frown, but he knows he can't answer that question. "Do you want to see my ID?" he tersely answers instead. It's the fake one that says he's eighteen - old enough to be operating on his own.

"No, no, no need for that," the man chuckles. Dustin's frown deepens; that would have ended this pointless conversation faster if he had. "I have a daughter around that age. She's obsessed with puzzle books like the one you're doing. Can't buy them fast enough."

There's another awkward pause as Dustin stubbornly refuses to engage.

"At the rate you're going, you'll probably need to buy another one at your stop, too," notes the officer. "Where are you headed?"

That's an answer Dustin can provide. "Michigan," he murmurs. Of course, now he'll need to take an extra long pitstop in Vermont to shake this guy, but he'll make it there eventually.

"Long trip," the officer whistles appreciatively. "Have family waiting for you there?"

Something inside Dustin snaps. "--Leave me alone," he hisses, looking at the man directly for the first time so he can shoot him a venomous glare. "What do I have to--"

When Dustin slaps the half-completed sudoku book closed, so does the book in the store, abruptly ending the memory.