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physical center is vital .
    â€œYou’ll probably have to run the Eddie Haskell routine when we arrive, Ian.” PJ’s name for it, not my own. “Sorry to impose, but they fall for it every time.”
    He smirks a little. “Yeah, they do,” he says, and finally looks at me. “No problem, I’ve got it covered.” Something about the way he looks at me makes my cheeks go warm. It’s as though someone wiped a layer of grime off Ian, and suddenly I am seeing a glow coming from inside him.
    Listen to yourself, Kendra. This is Ian Buckley. Ian Buckley who once called you a pathetic loser in class. Ian Buckley, who got you all mixed up in this zombie business to begin with. You must be jet-lagged.
    With the city long gone, the highway turns into a rural country road. An hour later, we see our first billboard, depicting a towering cave surrounded by brightly colored Indonesian characters. We turn off at an exit and head down an unpaved road, the car shuddering, a stretch of hills growing in the distance. Finally, we see another series of signs depicting stalactites and bats, followed by a metal fence that a man opens for us, ushering us toward a sizeable cave mouth with a small white shack next to it.
    As we pile out of the car, Ian turns up his smile and ruffles his blond hair. Sometime in the last few months, PJ and I decided that Ian had to be the face of our Gravedigger unit. While he occasionally overspeaks and will often straddle the line between crass and unmentionable, Ian Buckley is a blond athletic young man with an upbeat attitude, and people seem to respond to that well. When information is needed, I’ll dart in. PJ is, in his own words, “permanent background.” Ian’s our best face forward.
    As we approach the shack, we see a small crowd of tourists waiting nearby, wearing ponchos and sorting cameras. Tuning in my ears, I acknowledge three Germans, four Indonesians, and a Chinese couple speaking Mandarin. As we step up to the shack, a box office window greets us, where a teenage girl mans a battered cash register.
    â€œHiya!” says Ian, putting his biggest, dumbest smile forward.
    â€œ Apakah anda memiliki reservasi? ” she asks.
    His shoulders slump as quickly as his grin does, and he looks at me in sudden terror. I myself feel naked and embarrassed in my ignorance.
    Didn’t study your phrasebook enough this time, Kendra. Didn’t think you’d need to. That’s some sloppy work. Did you expect Ian or PJ to know Indonesian —
    â€œWe should have a reservation under ‘Melee,’ ” says PJ, lightly pushing Ian aside. “Tickets for three.”
    â€œOh, absolutely,” says the girl. “They’re right here.” She slides three tickets through a slot in the bottom of the glass. “Everyone who works here speaks English, so feel free to ask questions.”
    â€œHow did you know that?” I ask PJ as we make our way toward the cave mouth.
    â€œLook at this place,” says PJ. “It’s a total tourist trap. Of course they speak English.”
    PJ is not wrong. The cave entrance, an egg-shaped stone mouth opening up in the side of a nearby hill, is surrounded by signs, trash cans, and even a battered vending machine. There appear to be no shrines or ancient carvings, only a series of damp-looking tourists and an uninterested tour guide in an orange jumpsuit and a helmet lamp. When we reach him, he’s speedily talking to the Germans and hands us each a helmet lamp without looking at us.
    When he finishes his announcement in German, he turns to us and rattles out: “Welcome to Bangyan Cave. Bangyan Cave is one of the largest caves in Indonesia and has a diversity of wildlife, there are also many rare geological formations, some even say the water from Bangyan is medicinal, Bangyan Cave was said to be formed over a thousand years ago, artifacts and fossils found in Bangyan Cave have been