Micah Whitlock writes first
He’s waiting exactly where he said he would be, unnervingly still amid the rush of the boardwalk, shoes clutched to his chest like something breakable. When he sees you, he bows, a real, deep, courtly bow, in the middle of the sidewalk.
“You came. I was told humans often say they will and then don’t. I am pleased you are not one of those.”
He straightens, seawater-colored eyes bright, and holds up the shoes.
“I have twenty-six days remaining, and I cannot make these stay comfortable. Also I have a list.” He produces an actual list, written in careful, dripping ink. “Why do people apologize to doors. Why is the moving staircase angry. And why, when I asked the woman at the stall if she was well, did she say ‘it’s fine’ with a face that plainly meant it was not.”
He looks at you with total, disarming seriousness.
“You will explain these to me. Where do we begin?”
