Charlie was home in his Grandpa’s yellow kitchen. The window over the sink caught the morning light and threw it across the counter in long rectangles. The hum of the old refrigerator that his grandfather kept saying he'd replace but never did. The smell of coffee and something sweeter underneath it.

  His grandfather sat at the table, newspaper spread in front of him, reading glasses perched on his nose. He was wearing the cardigan with the hole in the elbow, the one Charlie's grandmother had knitted before Charlie was born. He never wore it outside the house, but he wore it every morning.

  "You're up," his grandfather said. Not a question or accusation, just an observation.

  Charlie slid into the chair across from him. The wood was warm from the sunlight. "I guess so."

  "Your mother's making pancakes."

  Charlie turned toward the stove, and she was there.

  Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, the way she always wore it when she was cooking. Strands had escaped near her temples, curling slightly from the heat. She was wearing the blue apron with the faded sunflowers, the one that used to hang on the hook by the pantry, the one his grandfather had quietly moved to a box in the garage two years ago.

  She was humming. Something soft and tuneless, the kind of song that wasn't really a song at all, just sound made for the sake of making it. Charlie knew that hum. He'd fallen asleep to it a thousand times when he was small, her hand on his back, her voice filling the dark spaces in his room.

  "Hey, bug," she said without turning around. "You want blueberries or chocolate chips?"

  "Both."

  "Ambitious." She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. "A good way to start a morning. I like it."

  Charlie's chest ached in a way that wasn't pain. He watched her move. Her hand reaching for the bag of chocolate chips on the top shelf, standing on her toes the way she always did because she refused to use the step stool, laughing at herself when she almost knocked over the flour.

  "You're staring," his grandfather said mildly, turning a page.

  "Sorry…just deja vu."

  "Don't apologize, déjà vu is right. She’s the second coming of her mother. A radiant beauty."

  His mother threw a dish towel at his grandfather without looking. It landed perfectly on top of his newspaper.

  "Comparing a woman to her mother is rarely a compliment.” She smiled. “But thank you.”

  "You’re welcome." His grandfather folded the towel neatly and set it aside. "Sixty-three years old and she still scolds me.”

  "And don't you forget it."

  Charlie watched them. The easy rhythm of it. The way they traded words like they were passing a ball back and forth, never dropping it or fumbling. His grandfather had a different laugh when she was in the room. Like the years since weren’t weighing it down.

  "Okay, bug." His mother set a plate in front of him. Three pancakes, golden brown, with chocolate chips and blueberries studded through them like constellations. A pat of butter was melting in the center. "Eat up."

  She sat down next to him. Close enough that he could smell her shampoo. He couldn’t describe the smell, but it was something that didn't exist in any bottle in the house anymore.

  "How'd you sleep?" she asked.

  "Good."

  "Yeah? No bad dreams?"

  Charlie shook his head. She reached over and brushed the hair off his forehead. Her fingers were warm.

  "You need a haircut," she said.

  "I like it long."

  "I know you do." She smiled. "I like it too. Don't tell your grandfather."

  "I can hear you," his grandfather said. "And I maintain that the boy looks like a sheepdog."

  "A handsome sheepdog," his mother said.

  "The handsomest," his grandfather agreed. "But unless he’s going to work the field somewhere, he needs a haircut."

  Charlie ate his pancakes. They tasted exactly right. The chocolate chips were melty, the blueberries bursting, the edges just slightly crispy, just the way he liked them. His mother watched him eat with the particular satisfaction of someone who had made something good and was enjoying the proof of it.

  "I had the weirdest thought yesterday," she said, stealing a blueberry off the edge of his plate. "I was at the grocery store, and I saw this woman arguing with a cantaloupe. Like, really going at it, and get this, losing. I thought ‘Charlie would love this.’"

  Charlie tried to imagine the scene and smiled.

  "Yeah, I would love to see that."

  "I know. That's why I thought it." She rested her chin on her hand. "You’d convince that cantaloupe to get in that woman’s cart. A minute with you and it’d be happy to.”

  “I’m not sure, Mom. I’m better with puzzles than with words.”

  “What is an argument but a word puzzle?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  She smiled and started folding her apron. “Even when you were tiny, you'd just…watch. Take everything in. Your dad used to say you were like a little scientist, always running experiments."

  Charlie's fork paused halfway to his mouth.

  "He said you'd figure out the world one day. That you just needed time to collect enough data." She was still smiling, but something in it had shifted. "He wasn't wrong. About that part, anyway."

  His grandfather's newspaper rustled. He didn't say anything.

  "Mom," Charlie said.

  "Yeah, bug?"

  He didn't know what he wanted to ask. The question was too big, or maybe too small. It sat somewhere in his chest, tangled up with the taste of chocolate chips, the smell he couldn’t name, and the way the sunlight caught the tiny lines around her eyes.

  "Nothing," he said. "These are really good."

  "Yeah?" Her smile came back, full and warm. "Good. Eat more. You're too skinny."

  "I'm not skinny."

  "You're a string bean with hair." She poked his arm. "I worry."

  "You always worry."

  "That's my job." She leaned over and kissed the top of his head. "That's what moms do."

  Charlie closed his eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough to hold onto the feeling of her being close. The weight of her hand on his shoulder and the particular way she breathed when she was content.

  "Your father should be down soon," she said.

  Charlie opened his eyes.

  His grandfather was looking at him now. The newspaper set aside. His face was careful in the way it got when he was thinking about something he didn't want to say.

  Footsteps on the stairs, and Charlie turned toward the doorway. A man stood there. He was tall with broad shoulders. Wearing a flannel shirt that looked familiar, though Charlie couldn't say why. His hands hung relaxed at his sides.

  His face was wrong. Not missing or blank, but scribbled over, like a child had taken a pen and drawn circles over and over where his features should be. Charlie couldn't find eyes or a mouth, only the frantic loops of someone who didn't want him to see.

  "Oh… Hi, Charlie," the man said. He didn’t sound happy to see Charlie, and his voice came from very far away.

  Charlie looked back at his mother.

  She was still sitting next to him, but her humming had stopped. Her skin had gone gray, waxy, like fruit left out too long. Her eyes were filmy. When she opened her mouth, the sound that came out was wet and wrong.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  The butter on his pancakes had turned to mold. The blueberries were shriveled. The chocolate chips were moving.

  "Mom?" Charlie pushed back from the table. His chair scraped against the floor.

  She reached for him. Her fingers were cold, and her smile was still there, stretched too wide across her gray face.

  "Charlie." His grandfather's voice cut through. He was steady and calm, but he hadn't moved from his seat. "Sit down, son."

  "Grandpa, she's…"

  "I know." His grandfather looked at him. Sad and patient and tired in a way Charlie recognized from late nights and early mornings and all the silences between them. "You need to face this. You can't keep running."

  The man in the doorway stepped closer. His face was still a blur of overlapping scribbles.

  “You’re the reason...”

  His voice still echoed from nowhere.

  "We never talk about it," his grandfather said. "Not really. Not the way we should. I think we've both been…"

  "I can't." Charlie's voice cracked. He shut his eyes and put his hands over his ears. "I'm sorry… I just… I just can't."

  He ran.

  He hit the back door at full speed and burst into a crowded hallway.

  Lockers lined both sides. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Students moved between classes, backpacks slung over shoulders, and conversations overlapping into a wall of noise. Charlie didn't remember leaving the house. He didn't remember getting to school, but here he was, and he felt like he was late for something.

  He wiped the tears out of his eyes and started walking.

  A girl glanced at him as she passed. Leaned into her friend. Whispered something. They both looked back.

  Charlie kept his eyes forward.

  The hallway was longer than he remembered. Had it always been this long? The science wing seemed miles away. He passed the same bank of lockers twice, or maybe they just looked the same. Blue, blue, blue, then a dented one with a sticker of a skateboard, then blue again.

  Someone laughed behind him. He didn't turn around.

  "…always by himself," a voice said. Close enough to hear. Far enough to pretend he hadn't.

  "My mom says he's slow."

  "He's not slow. He's just…"

  "Just what?"

  A pause. "…you know."

  Charlie walked faster. His sneakers squeaked against the linoleum. The sound echoed too loud, like the hallway was holding onto it.

  A boy at a locker looked up. Tyler Maddox. He'd been in Charlie's homeroom since fifth grade. They'd never spoken, not really, but Tyler had opinions about Charlie. He shared them freely.

  "Hey." Tyler stepped into the hallway, blocking the path. "Where’re you going?"

  "Class."

  "Which class?"

  Charlie tried to remember. The answer was there a second ago. "Math."

  "Math's the other way."

  Was it? Charlie looked back. The hallway behind him had changed. The lockers were different colors now. Orange and green, like a different school entirely.

  "You lost?" Tyler asked. He wasn't alone anymore. Two other boys had joined him from seemingly nowhere. The way people did when they sensed there was something worth watching.

  "No."

  "You look lost." Tyler smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "You look confused. You always look confused, you know that? Like you're trying to figure out what planet you're on."

  One of the other boys snickered.

  "I'm fine," Charlie said.

  "Yeah? Because my neighbor is in your classes, and he makes that same face. That like…" Tyler scrunched up his features, mouth hanging open, eyes unfocused. "Yeah, that face. The one you’re doing now."

  Charlie didn’t think he was making a particular face, but he decided to change the one he had anyway. He went neutral with his mouth shut.

  The boys laughed. The sound bounced off the lockers, multiplied, and filled the hallway until it was coming from everywhere. Other students had stopped walking. They were watching now. A crowd forming without moving, like the walls had grown eyes.

  Charlie pushed past Tyler. Shoulder to shoulder. Harder than he meant to.

  "Hey!" Tyler's hand grabbed his backpack strap. "I'm talking to you, freak."

  Charlie yanked free. His backpack slipped off one shoulder, but he didn't stop to fix it. He just ran.

  The hallway stretched ahead of him. Endless. The lockers blurred into streaks of color. Faces appeared in his peripheral vision. Some he recognized, some he didn't, but all of them watched, and all of them whispered.

  What's his problem…

  Freak can't even take a joke…

  Something’s wrong with him…

  My mom says he’s just sensitive…

  Maybe he’d have friends if he…

  Charlie's lungs burned. His legs ached, but the end of the hallway kept retreating, the doors getting smaller instead of larger, the exit shrinking every time he reached for it.

  Then, suddenly, the doors were right in front of him.

  He slammed through them and stumbled into the gym.

  The squeak of sneakers on hardwood. The echo of voices bouncing off high ceilings. The smell of sweat, rubber, and floor polish. Charlie knew this gym. He'd had PE here three times a week for two years. The banners on the wall. The climbing rope in the corner that no one ever used except that one week in May. The bleachers folded against the wall like accordion teeth.

  Except that the bleachers were extended now, and the whole school sat on them. The gym was full.

  Mrs. Hendricks stood at center court, whistle around her neck, clipboard in hand. She was shaped slightly wrong, but her voice was exactly right when she looked up and smiled.

  "Nice of you to join us, Brunswick. You're on the defending team."

  "I don't…"

  "Dodgeball." She blew the whistle. "You know the rules."

  Charlie didn't remember walking onto the court, but he was there now, standing on the back line, and the other team was already armed. A row of kids holding balls. Red rubber balls. Except they weren't quite rubber. They pulsed slightly in their hands, like hearts.

  "Ready?" Mrs. Hendricks raised her whistle.

  "Wait…"

  She blew it.

  The first ball came at his head. Charlie ducked. It sailed past and hit the wall behind him with a wet splat, leaving a smear of something that looked like grape jelly.

  The second ball caught him in the shoulder. It didn't hurt exactly, but the impact spread through him like a shiver, leaving a cold spot that throbbed.

  "You're supposed to dodge, Brunswick!" Mrs. Hendricks called out. "It's in the name!"

  More balls. Charlie dodged left, dodged right, ducked under one that screamed as it passed. He swore it actually screamed, a high, thin sound like a teakettle, and took another to the hip. This one burst on impact, spattering him with something warm and wet that smelled like the cafeteria on fish stick day.

  The other team was laughing. The bleachers were full of people laughing. The whole gym was laughing, the sound swelling until it filled every corner, until Charlie couldn't tell where it was coming from anymore.

  A ball hit him square in the chest.

  He went down.

  The hardwood was cold against his back. The ceiling was very far away. The lights buzzed and flickered. For a moment he thought he saw something moving up there, something with too many legs, but then a face appeared above him.

  Tyler Maddox. Holding another ball. This one had teeth.

  "Game over, freak."

  He threw it.

  Charlie rolled. The ball hit the floor where his head had been and bit into the wood. It gnawed and growled as pieces of wood flew.

  He scrambled to his feet and ran for the only cover he could see: the bleachers. The gap between the seats and the floor. Dark and narrow, but big enough.

  The space under the bleachers was darker than it should have been. Charlie crawled forward, elbows scraping against concrete that hadn't been there a moment ago. The sounds of the gym had faded behind him. He couldn’t hear the laughter, squeaking sneakers, or the growling dodgeball anymore. It was like someone had closed a door behind him.

  He kept crawling.

  The darkness thickened. The concrete gave way to dirt, then to something softer, like moss. The ceiling lowered until he was on his belly, pulling himself forward with his forearms. He couldn't see anything now. Just black.

  Then, ahead of him: a faint glow.

  Charlie dragged himself toward it.

  The glow came from a door. It was small, barely two feet tall, and set into what might have been a wall or might have been nothing at all. The door was old wood, cracked and weathered, with a brass handle shaped like a curled hand.

  And it had a face.

  Not carved into it or painted on. The wood itself had arranged into features. Two knots were eyes, a whorl for a nose, and a long crack that served as a mouth. The eyes blinked.

  "Well," the door said. Its voice was dry and creaky, like hinges that needed oil. "Don't see many of your kind down here."

  Charlie didn't know what to say to that.

  "Cat got your tongue? Or are you just slow?"

  "I'm not slow."

  "Defensive. Good. Shows spirit." The mouth-crack stretched into something like a smile. "I'm a door, or do you need me to explain that, too?”

  Charlie shook his head.

  “Good, you want through, I assume?"

  "Yes."

  "Then you know how this works."

  "I don't, actually."

  The door's eyes narrowed. "Everyone knows how this works. You answer a riddle. You pass through. Ever seen a movie, kid? C’mon, this is simple as breathing, assuming you're any good at breathing."

  "And if I get it wrong?"

  "Then you stay here." The door's smile widened. "I’m a door, not an executioner."

  Charlie's heart was still pounding from the gym. His chest ached where the ball had hit him. But underneath the fear, something else stirred. Something that perked up at the word riddle the way a dog perks up at the word walk.

  "Okay," he said. "Ask me."

  The door considered him for a long moment. Its wooden features shifted, rearranging into an expression of grudging respect.

  "Very well." It cleared its throat. It was a sound like sandpaper on stone. "I have cities, but no houses live there. I have mountains, but no trees grow. I have water, but no fish swim. I have roads, but no cars drive. What am I?"

  Charlie closed his eyes.

  Cities without houses. Mountains without trees. Water without fish. Roads without cars.

  The answer came to him the way answers always did. Not with words, but in shape. A feeling that resolved into meaning.

  "A map," he said.

  The door was silent.

  Charlie opened his eyes.

  The mouth-crack had fallen open, the wooden features frozen in something like surprise.

  "Well," the door said finally. "Aren't you something. Enjoy the view."

  It swung open.

  Light poured through. It wasn’t the fluorescent buzz of the gym or the yellow warmth of his grandfather's kitchen, but something cleaner. Charlie crawled toward it, and the ground beneath him tilted, and then he was falling.

  He landed on an oversized toadstool and tumbled forward onto warm earth.

  For a long moment, he just lay there, breathing. The air smelled like flowers he didn't know the names of. A breeze moved over him, gentle, carrying something that sounded almost like music.

  Charlie sat up.

  He was on the edge of a cliff, legs dangling over a drop that went down forever. A valley stretched out below in impossible colors. Greens that were greener than green. Blues that hummed. A river wound through the center like a silver ribbon, and the sky above was the soft pink of early morning, though there was no sun.

  And in that sky, a girl was flying.

  She was younger than him. Eight or maybe nine, with dark skin and hair in two puffs that trailed behind her like clouds. Her arms were stretched wide, her face turned up toward the light, and she was laughing.

  Charlie watched her loop through the air. She twisted, dove, pulled up at the last second, and shot back toward the pink sky. Her laughter echoed off the valley walls.

  He felt something in his chest, but it almost felt borrowed. A joy so big it couldn't stay inside one person. It spilled over the edges, warm and bright, and some of it landed on him.

  I'm flying, he thought, but he wasn't flying. She was.

  It didn't matter. He smiled and watched her.

  The girl kept flying, but the sky overhead turned dark as stormclouds crowded in. The rain fell hard and lightning split the sky. The girl dodged the bolts with ease, but the laughter was gone. The warmth that had been in his chest a minute ago suddenly felt lukewarm.

  He didn't know how long he sat there. The valley didn't seem to care about time. He let the rain fall on his face. It wasn’t too unpleasant, but he would be lying if he said he prefered it over the sunny sky.

  Eventually, the valley filled up with water, and he began to float. The girl's loops grew slower and lazier overhead. As if she were getting tired.

  Charlie floated on his back in the stormwater for as long as he could, then let himself sink below the waves with a borrowed smile on his face.