The Author (Chapter 2)

Emmett studied his feet. It was one thing to know that you were miserable, but it was quite another to have your misery spoken aloud.

"So," Ralph continued, "the gateways don’t open often, but when they do, it is my job to catch the poor sap in the crossing and check them in."

Emmett stopped to ponder these explanations. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make himself believe it.

"You wouldn’t happen to have a razor would you?" asked Ralph, out of the blue.

Emmett looked up, considered the question, and shook his head.

"Damn!" Ralph grumbled. "No one ever has a razor when they come through here. I requested that one be shipped up here ages ago, but no one ever seems to remember little old Ralph."

"Wait. You mean . . . you don’t want that beard?"

"Heavens no! This blasted thing is itchy. Not to mention that I keep tripping over it."

That was the last straw. Emmett considered his situation, trying to remain rational. Okay. Okay. I somehow fell through a puddle-a puddle!-and went flying through the air, only to be caught by a flying office, which is managed by this bizarre old man whose beard has grown long enough that it reaches the floor, simply because no one who has crossed between worlds-of all things!-has happened to have a razor on them. Okay. Okay.

In light of his analysis, Emmett did the only logical thing to do. He slapped himself across the face. Repeatedly.

"Heavens boy! Don’t beat yourself up about it. I don’t need a razor that bad."

Emmett stared back at him. "I’m not beating my self up about a razor! I’m trying to wake myself up!"

"Oh, is that all? If it’s waking up you need, a good ol’ shot of whiskey will certainly do the trick. Really get the blood boiling. I drink it all the time."

Emmett cocked an eyebrow. "Figures," he muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

Ralph shrugged and went back to his explanations. "So, now that you’re here, I have to log you into the books." He hopped from his seat. "Be back in a flash."

Ralph scuttled over to a door labeled "Top Secret". Why he’d bothered writing "Top Secret" on a door when he was the obviously the only resident was completely beyond Emmett.

Emmett realized in his moment alone that he still hadn’t woken up. He, judging by the aches in his body, was most definitely awake. But this can’t be real, he thought, not a little frustrated. It can’t.

Ralph returned a few moments later with a book in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. He sat down and took a quick swig before spreading his large leather tome atop his mess of loose papers. He grabbed a quill.

"So, you got a last name Emmett?"

Emmett didn‘t know exactly what to do with himself, so he decided he might as well answer Ralph’s questions. "Well, not exactly. I’ve had a lot of them."

"No need. Just Emmett will do. How tall are you? Three feet?"

"I’m four foot one," grumbled Emmett testily. His height, or lack thereof, was always a bit of a soft spot.

"And how old?"

"I’m twelve."

Ralph nodded. He sucked the end of his feather in thought, choked as the bristles tickled his throat, and finally scribbling down the information in his book. "Brown, no . . . more of a rust colored hair," he said as he recorded. "In need of a haircut," he continued. "And green eyes."

He paused and looked up at Emmett again. "How much do you weigh? Forty Pounds?"