Prologue / Chapter 1
Prologue:
This was, in some ways, the most normal Tuesday.
This Tuesday didn’t particularly stand out from most Tuesdays. In fact, most Tuesdays are the same as other Tuesdays. They don’t tend to stand out. Generally, nothing special happens on a Tuesday.
The exciting days, the Fridays, the Saturdays, they’re looked forward to by all. Tuesdays aren’t so anticipated. The Sundays, filled with dread for the coming week, carry an undertone of stress upon arrival. There’s nothing to dread on a Tuesday; the week is already in motion. Mondays, of course, are the worst days of the week, but at least they have an identity, the Manic Mondays. Tuesdays just sort of arrive after Mondays, when all the fuss over working has died down. And it may be silly to celebrate Hump Day, but Wednesdays represent an accomplishment, the completion of exactly half of our weekly career obligations. And Thursdays- well, we all know that Thursdays are spent dreaming of Friday. But what about Tuesdays? Dull days, without anticipation or dread or celebration or accomplishment.
For 99% of the population of Capital City, this was the Tuesday of Tuesdays, not even a blip on their existential radar. Not a particularly sunny day, somewhat cloudy but not overcast; spurts of wind without chill; a little fog at sunrise that would dissipate by mid-morning. The radio stations played all the same songs. No new technological advances would be made. There was no political news to share, as no politician would dare be the lone newsworthy press -item on a Tuesday.
Still, even if the world could agree as a whole, that this was just another boring day, some lucky people might have a special day. One woman, on her way to a job interview at a local retailer, was complimented for her exquisite dress. The compliment would give her the much-needed boost in confidence she needed to land the job.
An EMT, just getting off of an overnight shift, decided to indulge in the unrefrigerated cheesesteak he had bought from a cart off of Main and 8th the night prior, and would remember the enhanced flavor imparted on the beef by its hours-long marination in the stale passenger seat of their ambulance. And for their part, his unsuspecting bowels would later remember and resent the EMT’s decision for as long as he walked the earth, the trust between the two broken forevermore.
Yes, as boring as this Tuesday was at large, a few individuals might have special days. In fact, a number of employed citizens, headed into their otherwise boring Tuesday mornings in bumper-to-bumper traffic on Park Avenue would claim that this was a very different Tuesday. As cars came to an arrhythmic stop, with far too much idle time on their hands, insufficiently caffeinated drivers’ eyes wandered from their lanes, first turning to the competing rat race contestants in adjacent lanes, and darting to any gap that would form between cars for some opening that might let them exit this jam early, then to the traffic lights which seemingly intentionally turned green for just long enough to taunt drivers, then drifting wearily to the cloudy sky, before landing on a sight that, for lack of a better term, some might refer to as very un-Tuesdayish: facing west along the road, framed in uneven black molding, an off-white door could be seen from traffic, its brass knob reflecting the morning sunrise and blinding some drivers.
A lone beacon of mild fascination on an otherwise boring Tuesday, the door signaled to a few lucky souls that maybe this Tuesday would be different. Maybe something good would happen. Or something terrible. Who knows? But something might happen. and that is more than can be said of most Tuesdays.
For being an oddity, the door was still quite mundane, perhaps the Tuesday of oddities. It was, after all, just a door, in a frame. However, the door did have two identifiable quirks that set it apart: First, the number 308 was engraved on one side of it, just below its peephole. Second, and perhaps a little more un-Tuesdayishly, the door, with no support, was suspended in midair, hovering some 40 feet off the ground.
Chapter 1
7:20- ish am
“Sir. The call just came in, sir.”
“Sir, the call came in?”
“Well, sir, a call came in, sir. It might be the call, sir.”
“Alright sir. What should we do, sir?”
“Well, sir, this is what we’ve been waiting for, sir. The call. Or a call.”
“Of course, sir. But don’t you think it’s a little odd, sir?”
“Odd how, sir?”
“Well, the call didn’t come in for so many days, but now, of all days, the call comes in today, sir?”
“What’s so special about today, sir?”
“That’s just it, sir. Nothing.”
“Hm. Good point, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes sir. It’s all too convenient, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes sir. Perhaps we should wait for a less convenient time, and a less convenient call. When the time comes, we’ll know it because it will seem incredibly inconvenient.”
“…”
“Er, ‘sir.’”
Emma
I get the feeling I’m supposed to be doing something today.
*Beep beep beep beep* the alarm clock blares. Eyes closed, I gently reach my hand over to the nightstand, remaining horizontal. I lightly caress the wooden top, feeling for the source of the noise. My fingers glide along the grain of the wood, searching for the first sign of some non-organic device, any metal or plastic- oh, I found it- *BANG BANG BANG*. “Die, alarm. Die,” I think to myself. The echo of my banging rings in my ears. Did I get it? I open my eyes to see my hard clamshell phone, resting, intact, on the nightstand under the pressure of my still clenched fist.
*Beep beep beep beep* Oh god. That alarm clock, that virtual fog horn isn’t on the nightstand. It’s in the next room on the bathroom counter, some ten feet away, buzzing as if to taunt me. Why do I keep that thing so far from my bed?
*Beep beep beep beep* I struggle to push myself off my stomach – oh I slept hard, didn’t I? Is it just me or is the beeping getting louder? I roll over onto my back and kip myself from the bed, landing flat on my back each time but inching closer to the edge of the bed. Finally, with my legs hanging off, I rise and, with the grace of a premature giraffe, wobble over to the alarm shakily. If I get to it in time, snooze it, and get back to bed, maybe, just maybe I’ll be able to get back to sleep.
*BEEP BEEP BEE-* I silence off that wailing electronic demon, pressing the “on/off” button just a little extra firmly. With my fist. Too late, though. I’m awake. And that’s why I keep the alarm clock in the bathroom.
I stand for a moment in the door to the bathroom. There’s just a little natural light coming in from the tall window of the bedroom, but my apartment’s bathroom doesn’t have any such luxury. It’s just pitch black in there, save for the red light of my five dollar digital alarm clock reading “6:30.” Cue the typical morning inner dialogue.
You could probably sleep another 15 minutes.
You have to be out the door by 7:20 sharp.
Yeah, but that’s still so far away.
6:31
Cut out the stretches and you’ll be fine. And the shower too. You don’t need that.
You definitely need to shower. And the stretches make you feel better after.
Fine, cut out breakfast.
You’re going mad if you think I’m cutting out breakfast with the day I have ahead of me.
Wait, what day do you have ahead of you?
I have stuff to do. Lots of stuff.
…
So much stuff, in fact, that I can’t even think of most of it right this minute. It’s early.
That it is. You should sleep.
Get it together.
Sssslleeeeeeeep Emma. Go back to dreamland. It’s fine. Just another ten minutes.
You’re so annoying.
SLEE-
“Alright Emma. You know what you have to do.” I croak in my sleepy voice. Wow, it feels like I haven’t spoken in ages. I place my hand blindly on the light switch and even before I can act my eyes are already tightening against my will, trying to force me back to sleep. It really sucks when you know that the thing you have to do will cause you pain. I flip the switch as I force my eyes open
“Ahh!” I whimper in time with my inner dialogue as the light blinds me. Hey, that did the trick. I can practically feel the little lazy voice scamper away into the recesses of my mind. Ugh. Willpower sucks. Or whatever’s motivating me to get out of bed today.
Coffee is on and we’re off to the races as I follow my routine to the beat. I step directly from the pot and onto my already-rolled-out yoga mat in the living area adjacent to my kitchen. Some morning stretches. Really basic stuff. Don’t want to pull a muscle later reaching for…well, whatever it is I need to reach for today. I finish up with a mountain and skip the unnecessary ”namaste” junk, stepping off the mat unceremoniously. Quick shower, really just a rinse. Again, just the basics. Wouldn’t want the stink to run off my compatriots. I step into the kitchen in my towel as my cinnamon raisin bagel pops up from the toaster, and slather it with some butter.
And now for my daily ritual: I pause briefly to savor my bagel and dry off, staring out at my living room while I eat, and eyeing my little assortment of holiday decorations that I keep year around. The sound and aroma of brewing coffee fill the air of the apartment as I put eyes on each decoration for a moment. A family of little porcelain turkeys in quaker garb. A plastic dog skeleton with a jack-o-lantern puppy head. A little two-and-a-half foot tall standing Christmas elf. Some old large, opaque Christmas lights I think came from the 80’s- I’m genuinely surprised those are still functioning. An assortment of statues and other ornamental furnishings from holidays I’ve barely heard of fill out the rest of the space.
I generally have stuff for every season, but I like just having it inside to keep me company. It reminds me of holiday seasons with family. And this way every day can feel like the holidays. I could probably sit here enjoying the view of the holidays all day if I didn’t have places to be.
And oops. Look at that. I spent a little too much time taking in the view. 7:05. Now to my clothes. I’ve got an outfit laid out. Why’d I choose all black last night? “Nope, no way. That won’t do,” I call an audible, finding a turquoise blouse, navy blue jeans, and some fitting tennis shoes. Why did I think all black was a good choice?
Back to the kitchen, and it’s now 7:15. I’m definitely a little behind, in theory – really I should be right on time if I step out the door in the next five minutes. I have a plain white travel mug on the counter, but I scramble through the drying rack to find a more suitable one, something irreverent that tells people more about me than I can tell them about myself in passing. Ah, there. Under the pots and pans. My favorite one. “May contain the blood of Christ.” Coffee in. Creamer in. A tablespoon of sugar. Another tablespoon of sugar. Another tablespoon of sugar. Taste. One more. Yeah. Yum.
On my way out the door. Purse. Keys. Clamshell. Glance at the wall. 7:20 am. Right on time. I think. I open the door and step out-
*Thud*. My knee strikes something soft and it falls back without resistance. A second thud follows the first. I look down to see a little thing, maybe three or four years old, lying back on the ground. A real cutie too, with a button nose and golden curly hair, in an oversized puffy purple coat, just sprawled out on top of her little peach backpack, looking up at me with her sharp blue eyes wide open. Clearly, she’s surprised, though perhaps not as much as I am. Actually, she looks kind of familiar. Is she a neighbor kid?
“Sweety, oh no!” I stifle a little surprised chuckle as I bend down. “I’m sorry! Are you okay?” She starts to reach up to the sky to force herself up, but falls back to the ground. She tries again. “Here, I got ya.” I reach out to grasp one of her tiny hands as she reaches up, but she has something in her hand, and as soon as I make contact she pulls it out of my grasp and we hear a third thud as her back smacks the ground, flattening her backpack.
That sounded like a hard fall, too. She’s probably gonna cry this time. “Oh oh no! I got ya I got ya! Don’t cry!” But nothing. Just a blank stare. And, kneeling, I stare back. She waves her arms in the air to get some momentum- ah, it’s some smiling cartoonish toy bus in her hand, a little teal retro wagen. Finally she flails enough to sit up, pushes off and stands, face to face with me, her mouth hanging open just a little. Staring blankly.
After a minute, I break the silence. “Where are your parents?” Her mouth hangs open still. Looking around, I don’t see a soul in the long apartment hallway. “Which apartment are you in, sweety?” She doesn’t move. A little unnerving, actually. “Do you know which apartment you live in? We’re on the third floor.” She’s stone-faced.
I stand up and take another gander around, this time looking for any sign of people. No doors look to be open. I could go knocking on each one. But I don’t exactly know most of the people here. And I definitely don’t trust most of the people I don’t know here. That is the one thing I do know. And besides, if someone on the floor noticed their kid missing, they’d come looking on their own. It’s just a matter of time. But I was running late. I had things I needed to do, didn’t I? Cue the inner dialogue:
You have places to be.
I know.
Aren’t you going somewhere?
I was supposed to. I think.
Isn’t this a bit inconvenient?
You’re inconvenient.
I’m just saying, you should probably just move on. Go, enjoy your day.
Weren’t you begging me to stay home earlier?
I wasn’t begging, and that was different. You needed the sleep. You felt awful.
I didn’t feel awful.
Well you looked awful. But you’re up now, for better or worse. You might as well go on and enjoy your day.
This kid is all alone in the middle of a hallway. She’s lost.
Well, that’s her parent’s fault. She probably has a bum mum. Not your problem.
A bum mom? Really jumping to some self-serving conclusions there.
No, a bum mum.
You’re not British.
I could be British. Don’t I sound British? Don’t I have a British accent?
No. You don’t sound like anything. You’re in my head. You’re not British, because I’m not British.
Bum mum has a ring to it.
She probably just wandered from her apartment, and they’re looking for her.
Bum mum is not looking for her. Probably a junkie.
Well, if they’re not looking for her I’m definitely going to have to keep an eye on her.
Wait, I mean, maybe they are looking for her.
Stop it.
No! They are looking for her. And they’ll probably find her any minute. So you can just go enjoy your day.
Jesus.
She’ll be fine. Probably.
Look, I’m not just leaving a toddler alone in the hall. Period. Whatever this is, whatever she needs, I think I can take the time to help her. It might take 5 minutes. It might take 30. Who knows? This is my day for now. Like you said, for better or worse. Move on.
Fine. But until you prove otherwise I’m definitely calling her mom “Bum Mum.” I mean, really, who leaves a kid like this?
Yeah, well I guess we’ll find out when she shows.
Oh, but what name do I call the bad dad? Oh wait. I think I just answered my own question.
“Sweety, how about I wait with- wait, oh!” I guess my inner dialogue can be a little more distracting than I thought. The kid had walked right past me into my apartment. Now she’s walking through my little living room, looking and prodding at everything she sees, starting with my out-of-season but always festive decorations. “Wait, we should stay outside. Your parents are probably looking for you.” She doesn’t look up at me. Instead, she looks up at my standing Christmas elf.
Should we stay outside? It wouldn’t be a great look for me to have her in my apartment. Then again, I can’t exactly hold her down in the hallway like some psycho. Ah, I got it.
“Sweety, I’m gonna leave a little note real quick for your parents. If they come looking for you I want them to know you’re here. One sec.” I grab a pen, paper, and scotch tape, and write a brief note. “What’s your name, sweety?” I ask, already expecting she won’t answer. Nope. Okay… I write out the note:
“Hi! Your kid wandered into my apartment on their own. Knock when you get here and I’ll let you in!” I grab my elf statue and bring it out to the hallway, taping the note to his face. I give the note a once-over. Oh, that sounds kind of creepy when I think of it.
“P.S. Seriously, she came in, and I didn’t know what to do, so I’m making her cocoa. Everything is fine! Promise!
– Emma in apartment 308”
***
I don’t know much about toddlers. In fact, I’m not even sure this is a toddler. When do toddlers just become kids? Anyways. I know they’re cute - even the strange looking ones. This little lady has some loose little curls that I absolutely adore. They’re full of curiosity - case-in-point this one currently sitting and petting my doggo-lantern. They’re distractible- and she’s up and off to the next decoration. A TV would probably keep her entertained, if I wasn’t one of the 5 weirdos in this country who didn’t own one. But you don’t need that. Your decorations are doing the trick. And as I recall I might have been one, once, so it shouldn’t be too hard to entertain one for a bit. Yeah. They’re just like little adults, right? Just treat her like you would anyone else.
“Did you want me to make that cocoa?” She turns her head as I ask, but as soon as the question is done she is back to tracing her finger on the tiniest porcelain turkey. Hm. Should kids her age know how to talk? “Okay, I’m going to make some for you. You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to. I have water too. Just, uh…ask.” Like talking to a tiny, adorable brick wall.
Luckily I don’t have to make cocoa the hard way. I had a box of instant cocoa for just such an occasion. Okay, not this exact occasion. I didn’t plan to host a random kid who barged into my home when I made my grocery list. Middle shelf, way in the back. Okay, and water in a coffee cup. Going into the microwave. Alright, just gotta wait a couple of minutes for that.
“Oh, hey, no. Uh, please be careful with that. It’s breakable.” I’m trying not to sound too stern. She puts down the smallest quaker turkey, which she had picked up by the neck. Not quite gently, but the turkey is safe for now. “Thank you.”
It’s difficult to make conversation with a kid. Especially a kid you don’t know. And doubly especially a kid who can’t or won’t talk. Triple especially when you don’t really have any experience in the kid department. Do you ask yes/no questions? Just talk at them? Does speaking in a louder voice somehow get through to them? Do I talk less? More?
*Beep* the microwave chirps, softly. Cup out. Cocoa mix in. Stir. I think I heated it for too long. It’s steaming. I don’t think you’re supposed to give kids molten lava to drink.
“Let’s let it cool down.” I look back. She’s not listening. She’s not even at the decorations anymore. She’s standing in front of the couch, at one end table, looking at the photos covering it. She reaches out to touch one in particular. Oh, haha. I remember that one.
“That’s my family. We haven’t seen each other in a while. We used to love going to the beach together though.” I miss that. She examines the picture for a bit, then turns to look at me. Then back to the picture. Me. The picture. It’s just me and my family. Is she questioning my trustworthiness?. Maybe because I look different. “Yeah, I look a little younger in those pics.” She repeats this process with each picture frame she passes, I guess trying to assess what kind of person I am by whether or not I match the person in the pictures. Why am I grinning at this peculiar kid? What a curious feeling.
Okay. It’s been a few minutes, and no one’s come in. What gives? She’s turned away from me when I realize, maybe her backpack will help. Yeah, maybe she has a tag in there in case she gets lost. Like a dog tag! Kinda ridiculous, but it doesn’t hurt to check.
“Hey…uh…sweety.” Stop saying sweety. It sounds so weird. “What do you have in your backpack?” I hear some mumbling as her posture tightens up. “Hey, uh…” I start to walk over to her to check her backpack. “I just wanted to see if you had your parent’s information in there.”
“No.” I hear her say, quite definitively. Oh wow. I guess she does know some words. Deeper voice than I expected. Kinda boyish. I retract my hand and just stand by her.
“Okay. Hey. What’s your name?” Silence for a moment.
“Wesley.” Wesley? Kinda boyish, I have to admit. I expected something else. Then again, why would I expect any particular name? I don’t know this kid.”
“Okay, uh…Wesley. My name is Emma. And I just wanted to check your backpack to see-”
“NO!” What a voice for a kid. It echoes all around the apartment. There’s something unnerving about it.
“Okay, okay, uh, no big deal. Do you know where your parents are? Or where you live?”
“Not a clue.” Okay. That’s weird. She’s not moving anymore, just standing perfectly upright. And that voice feels less and less like the voice of a little kid. It’s not coming from her direction either.
That’s alarming. I realize. the door to the apartment. It’s unlocked. Why, why, why would I leave the door unlocked? My heart begins to stir.
Slowly, I pivot, quite unnaturally, looking around my apartment for intruders. Or maybe just parents. Parents with some sick sense of humor and terrible manners. By the time I finish turning around it looks like I’m stuck in the middle of the running man.
The door is...closed. I peek over the kitchen counter towards my bedroom. That door is closed too. Everything looks normal. Everything is perfectly in place. Except for the big, booming voice in my apartment. And it might just be paranoia, but it just doesn’t feel like we’re alone anymore. I see evidence I don’t want to see, on the counter. The piping mug of hot cocoa. It’s disappeared.
I turn quickly to check on the kid, and meet resistance as my cheek smacks into some large, immovable mass. It’s warm. It’s...furry? Coarse. Startled by the intrusion my body tenses. I yelp, only it’s muffled by the fur. Fight or flight mode is in full swing and I jump back - or, I try to jump back and trip, falling on my tailbone. Well, that’s not something you see every...ever. You never see that. It’s impossibly tall, it’s head nearly brushing the ceiling. Perked ears. Gray fur. A long snout on its face with a vicious looking set of teeth. But...the snout is wrapped around another face, the face of a smiling man. Towering over me, standing between me and my little guest, is a monstrous seven foot tall man in a wolf suit, sipping on my hot cocoa. In my apartment. The nerve.
“Oops. Sorry about that. Hey, you got any marshmallows for this?”
