Past the Moleville Mines, Booster's Tower and Star Hill is Seaside Town. Seaside Town isn't another New Toadsville. Instead, Seaside Town is the coastal resort village of the Mushroom Kingdom. Imagine a town where all the celebrities—Johnny, Prince Mallow, Booster, Nicolas Cage—stop by to leave their footprints and flipperprints in the concrete. Imagine shops that an architect copied and pasted and pasted and pasted together near the coast.

Where I'm at is the gate to Seaside Town, the cab I'm in parked just outside.

The cab radio goes, "Paging 271. Paging 271, this is 192, over."

I reach into my eye hole to wipe the sweat off my forehead. Breathe in, breathe out. The handle on the cab door feels warm the way Cassie's hand felt.

192 says, "271, did you get him? Over."

I hold my breath. Cold sweat. Psss. Static.

"271," 192 says, "we are sending help. Over."

This is my cue to get out of the cab.

Scattered all over Seaside Town is a clockwork of yoshi and their radio transmitters. The sound of static and chatter and yoshi calling out numbers fills the air. I pass by the shops and I overhear two moles talking.

One mole says, "I hear 'em sayin' Birdo's got all 'em yoshi but one, Shaniqua."

Pulling on the back of her bonnet, the other one says, "Good, 'cause I dun wanna hafta feed 'em kids no more." Shrugging one shoulder, she says, "Six kids."

Shaniqua looks right at me. She turns to the other mole. "Carl, ain't dat da shy guy?"

This is where I turn and walk down the alley.

Behind me, the sound of expensive sneakers pounding the cement and a star containing Queen Bean's over-sized handprints. Carl yells, "Hey, wait up, man! I want ya autograph!"

This is where I run down the alley. I hear the gallop, gallop of yoshi swarming over the way teenage girls swarm over a used Kleenex dropped by Robert Pattinson.

Twisting my head over my shoulder, I see a blur of huge periwinkle and hot magenta and pine green and cerulean and dolphin gray noses led by two moles. The yoshi are paging the others with their radio transmitters.

One of them points at me. "There, with the egg-shaped bookbag!"

One of them calls over, "Sir, you don't have to run. Birdo wants you to be part of a new age."

I hop over a fence at the end of the alley. With all the understanding and soothing sympathy possible, one of them cries, "We are not persecuting you for the assault of 271. We are not persecuting you for the assault of 271."

Static. Psss. He's headed for Shineget Boulevard, one of them says. Corner him off on the other side of the fence. Psss. Roger that, 90. This is 433, over.

We're I'm hiding is a vase among other vases thrown out over the fence.

"This is 47," someone says. "We lost him, but he can't be too far. Over." Static. Psss. And the sound of radio static becomes silent.