Margo Roth Spiegelman's strings had broken. She had nothing to keep her in Florida. Nothing to keep her in Agloe. Nothing to keep her in America. She had money. Enough to get her on a cheap plane. Enough to get her out of the country.

She may be sick of Agloe, but paper towns were important. Paper towns mean something. And she had found a paper town.

It didn't cost too much to rent a little car, and it was only needed for a couple of days. It would never be returned.

Curling into the tiny little thing, she drove out of the airport, down the motorway, and carried on driving. And she drove, and drove, and drove. She drove until she was crossing the border between England and Scotland, and still she didn't stop. And when she got out at the paper town, she saw no paper town.