In Beth's car, once the tatters of their conversation had found an end, Rachel pulled a yellow card from her jacket. "Would it be okay if we stopped by the post office?"

Beth looked at her in surprise. "What?? Are you trying to say that you need to go to the post office for real?"

"Well, yes; I got this 'will call' slip from them, and no one seems to want to tell me what it's about over the phone. You don't mind, do you?"

"When did you get that?" She looked at the card and then at Rachel, "It's like Suzanne's dream. Did you tell her about that thing?"

"No; I haven't spoken with her for a month. I got 'this thing' two days ago, and I called them from work yesterday, but they said I had to come down and sign some papers first. Since we have today off, I thought...." As uncharacteristic as it was for her, Rachel let her words trail into nothingness.

"Well, I'm coming in with you. That's all we need is for you to end up lost forever in the dead letter box or something. And I know your landlord would only be too happy to claim he'd never known you. You KNOW I don't like either Jim or Anna."

"Stop it. You should hear yourself. Aren't you usually the one counselling me to take a double-shot of reality?" She placed the card on the dashboard where it sat patiently through all their errands, waiting without complaint until they arrived at the post office.

The 'will call' window of the post office was also every other service window made for the building, thus the two spent several moments trying to find a 'will call' sign before they decided to ask. Apparently a package, if it could still be classified as such, had arrived a week or more earlier, but it had been damaged -- torn to pieces -- in the process, and the mailing label had gotten itself mostly removed. The postmaster, utilizing his infinite wisdom and discretion, then decided to contact the sender, Harbinger Books and Hermetic Supplies, to determine who the package might be for instead of just returning it the sender as "unfortunately damaged." There were three forms for Rachel to complete and sign, all attesting to her pardon of such "rare, though sometimes unavoidable occurrences" and to her acceptance of the package in its current state. The packing slip had also been lost.

"I'm not going to sign this." She told the man behind the counter. "Yeah I'll forgive your shitty treatment of the box, because I can understand how it could happen every once in awhile. I'll even compliment the way your boss handled the situation and abase myself before his humble genius. But I'm NOT going to state that nothing was completely destroyed, especially when I don't know what all they might have sent. Is your boss here? Can I talk to your supervisor?"

Amazingly enough, there was no issue with allowing Rachel to speak directly to the man who had tracked her down. But not so amazing once he appeared carrying his own discrete pile of papers. From Beth's expression Rachel could tell they were in agreement; the guy was frightening. His smooth, polite greeting, shaking hands across the counter with a "most pleasant to meet you" smile, gave them the impression that he chose to hide all his psychoses in plain sight. And he stared openly at them, as if memorizing their features. He was only too happy to explain that the delivery of this little package was not its only hardship on the way to its rightful owner. That the copy of the packing slip verification he had requested -- and checked thoroughly as documented right here and here -- had never quite made it to the sad little parcel. That was his fault personally, oh could he be forgiven? Perhaps they would like to join him for lunch as his way of being certain they were satisfied?

"Just take the package and run," Beth advised after she'd accidentally flung the pen inside the window and the supervisor had ducked to retrieve it.

"Fuck the package," Rachel responded while the head reappeared. "And thank you so much for all your diligence. You've gone above and beyond the call of duty for us here." She snatched the pen, scrawled her signature quickly, and grabbed the plastic bag containing pieces of cardboard and the books she'd ordered. "I don't think lunch is necessary, though it surely is a tempting offer. We must be on our way, now, thanks again. We're running late, you know." They turned simultaneously and left.

"Well, I guess that's over then," Rachel declared while closing the car door. "No more worries about me being whisked away by disgruntled postal workers."

"I swear I saw at least one REAL packing slip in that mess of paper he was flashing at us." Beth shook herself, then said, "What did you get, anyway? I thought you weren't going to order from them for a couple months. To save money for our trip to Maine."

"Oh, it's those sci-fi/fantasy books I talked Felsen into ordering for me. He finally got around to getting them. I already paid for them, don't worry." Rachel left the package debris in the plastic bag and removed the five scratched and stained hardbacks from their shroud of mangled and filthy bubblewrap. "Replay, Who's Afraid of Beowulf?, Beauty, The Bad Place, and The Identity Matrix. He said to me, 'Why don't you just join the damned Science-Fiction Book Club? I don't need people finding out I ordered trash novels to sell. I'd get inundated with squealing fluff-chicks. Next you know you'll ask me to order you all kinds of new-age crap. I won't do it, I tell you.' HA! He did."

"These are the books you wanted for your idea to research the extranormal through fiction, right?"

"Yeah. I've already read most of them because he put off ordering for so long. I found out that I was right; fiction authors have something to say whether or not they realize it. And, it would seem, there's stuff to be learned from even the most hack writers. They know not of what they speak, for the most part, and yet they can sometimes instinctually write the truth." She stopped, "It's just part of a much larger theory."

"Didn't you know a serious writer a few years back? Weren't you saying something about that the other night?"

"I don't know, and I don't remember. There's supposed to be some kind of writer in Outerville, or so Felsen tells me. Maybe that's what I was saying. You might have caught me sleeptalking again. Let's go and do that lunch thing."

It was purely shameful how quickly Beth and Rachel were able to find a place to live that they both liked. After their candle-lit lunch (to replace their candle-lit dinner) on the edge of an anonymous cornfield at a foundling boulder-and-log natural diner, they had started and ended their search at the first place they looked. The applications had to be approved and Rachel needed to give notice, but they had already been assured by the landlady that they were in. It was a happy occasion which would be celebrated with the rest of their friends. They'd managed to waste several hours cruising all over the countryside and visiting with Beth's mother. Now it was beginning to get on toward seven, time to head back to Rachel's. But right this minute they would fill Beth's car with gas.

"I think it could use some more oil, too." She stated, "And we might as well check the tranny fluid while we're there."

They stopped at the gas station on the strip: Main Street Outerville. Beth went inside to buy the oil, transmission fluid, and oil treatment "why not," while Rachel popped the hood and wrestled with the brake fluid cap. Maybe they should tear apart the engine and replace the gaskets, too. After all, this was the car they would try to get to Maine and back on, and it had to be kept healthy.

"How's it going?" from behind.

"Oh, it's okay." Beth answered.

"Having any trouble with it?" Rachel looked up to find Beth in conversation with the guy in a grey denim coat and fedora who'd parked next to them. His hood was also raised, and he had a bottle of oil in his hand.

"No, we're doing okay." There was that excited look of 'hey he's kinda cute, and he's talking to me' on her face as she handed Rachel a wad of paper towels, then began her own task of working a funnel into the transmission dipstick hose.

"Are YOU having any trouble?" Rachel asked, replacing the brake fluid cap.

"No. It's time to add oil; the darn thing's ticking again."

Beth and Rachel looked at each other, "You wait until it TICKS before you add oil?" They were both surprised, but Rachel had been the one to take the harrassment option.

"Well, hey, it looks like you'll be needing this more than we will," Beth said and stopped kvetching over her task to offer him the oil treatment. "What's your name? Nice hat."

It was not nice to play like this with him, they knew it. But between the two of them he didn't stand a chance. Neither would have been able to completely resist the temptation to be tacky for long enough to allow him to escape.

"Oh no, I couldn't possibly take this. My name's Mike and I'm on my way home from a family reunion. I'll never see either of you again to repay you."

"No really, Mike. We insist. Your car could seize up on the road and you'd be stranded. I can't stand that thought, can you, Beth?"

"Oh that would be horrible, Rachel. I can't imagine taking that chance. I'll worry about it forever if you don't take this." She pushed the bottle into his free hand, being certain to brush his sleeve with her arm. "It says you have to run the motor as you squeeze it in. Be firm and it will work. I know; I've done it before." They would laugh about this for years.

"Can I get you ladies something then? A liter of pop or maybe a bag of chips?" He pushed his hat up with the bottle, then set the treatment down next to the empties of oil. "I've only got a couple bucks, but I'd really like to make this up to you."

"Well, gee, Mike, do you have a plastic sheet?" Rachel asked in all seriousness. Beth turned away from him and constrained the laughter to her face.

"What?? What's a plastic sheet for?" He really didn't seem to know.

"Motor oil can be quite messy," Rachel replied. And, almost as an aside, "But anyway, where are you from?"

He overlooked her reply, still naive to it. Beth had recovered and gone back to her pouring. He then answered the question, "Norton. It's close to Akron."

"And where's your family?" Beth asked.

"Indiana, just across the border and north some. I didn't want to take 80 because I didn't want to have to pay the tolls. You two live around here?"

They were almost finished. Rachel looked away. She was no longer certain if this would stay funny, since the guy seemed authentically friendly.

"Yes, right here in town." Beth answered. "It was very nice to meet you, Mike. And you really don't have to worry about the oil treatment. Just do the same for someone else sometime. That's payment enough."

"Beth," Rachel called her over urgently. There was only about a step and a half between them, but Beth knew that voice and closed the distance.

"What? What is it?" She asked in a whisper.

"Look over there and tell me if there's something wrong," she gestured. "I can't quite tell, but I think something's happening in the sky."

Mike's engine revved, catching their attention briefly. Beth squinted at the sky in the direction Rachel had indicated. It was overcast and getting dark early. "Birds?" She asked after a few seconds' scrutiny.

"Beth, how far away should those 'birds' be?"

"Oh, a couple miles, at least. Jesus, those must be huge birds. They're landing now, must be near the woods." Beth looked for a second or two more, then shrugged.

"Okay, I think we're done here." Rachel turned around just in time to bump squarely into Mike. He was holding a receipt and a pen.

"Oof. I'm sorry. I was just thinking. I've got to come back by this way in about a month, so maybe I could call and take you two to coffee." He watched as Rachel went around him, clearing bottles and paper towels from the car.

"Oh, how sweet!" Beth said. "Another reunion?" She was caught somewhere between play mode and honestly impressed.

"Well, I just went there to see my uncle Jack today. He won't be there for the big reunion next month. I wrote down my phone number on half this receipt, so you'll know that I'm not some kind of sleeze. I was hoping to get YOUR--"

SLAM! The hood dropped.

"-- uh, phone number. Are you in a hurry?"

"Yes, I guess we are." Beth took the receipt and pen, scribbled down a number and tore it in half. "See ya Mike. I'll be looking forward to it." She opened the driver side door. "What the hell?!" She said into the car at a Rachel shoving things off the seat frantically.

"Get in, let's go. We've got to talk to the others!"

Beth handed Mike his share of the receipt and the pen. "Gotta run."

As they drove away, Mike ran after them. He waved the book, but they didn't see him. Replay.

"So, tell me, dearest heart," Beth said while speeding outrageously in the direction of Rachel's house, "What's new?" If she could have made the car go any faster -- maybe make it fly -- Rachel would have. Beth was sensitive to this, though she didn't enjoy being shoved around without reason. This was Beth being patient enough to ask for an explanation before she got upset.

"They've found us," was what Rachel said. "That's what this is all about. How could we have ever thought we'd get away with it?"

Beth waited, but there was nothing else. "And so, my love, who is this us? What did we not get away with?"

It seemed as though Rachel could not understand why Beth was not nearly as panicked as she should be, "Those things from the woods!" Then she caught herself, "That's right, I hadn't met you yet." These last were quiet, guilty words.

Beth tried to be helpful. "The only things from the woods I can think of are those crazy bat-wolf things you, Suzanne, and David were talking about all the time when I first met you. Didn't you use them in Circa Now?" She laughed at remembering, "And they were supposed to live in St Elmo's Woods, too, weren't they."

No comment.

"Wait a minute." The car began to slow down. "Are you saying that the Suzanne, Terry and David you were talking about weren't the characters? And you weren't some kind of NPC?" Beth began to pump on the gas pedal, but the car continued to slow. She looked at Rachel, "Isn't Tiras' real name J. David?"

"Yes, but," the engine sputtered. "Oh shit, we didn't get gas!"

"I thought that was just a story, dammit! Why didn't you tell me? God dammit!" Beth was stomping on the gas pedal with all her strength. "C'mon, baby, you thrive on vapors!"

Beth and Rachel had followed some advice from those really stupid horror flicks. The ones with the silly, frantic females who like to trip, twisting an ankle, just as the monster closes in on them. They'd split up; Beth using her greatly superior physical condition to run to the nearest phone and call Rachel's house, Rachel trying desperately to cover the distance between the abandoned car and a shed they'd spotted. They guessed that in this shed there would be something -- no, anything -- to help Rachel move faster. Maybe she could actually get home before her friends were ambushed. She'd been given plenty of warning to avoid exactly this situation, but she'd failed to understand its meaning. Wasn't it just the other day that she'd noticed (among other surprising qualities), that the effects of less flamboyant magic were notably more pure and, therefore, far more gainful? Pa-Ting.

Smaller than it had seemed from the road, the shed was padlocked. No surprise, really. She could pick the lock. No; that would no doubt only waste the scant minutes of light remaining. Rachel was positive they wouldn't attack while it was still light. Better to calm down before she tweaked completely and was forced to suffer waking for the third time today. She could feel the joy that kept her soul well being sucked into a vortex of dread.

Within the thought of waking, an answer struck her. It might work. Perhaps she couldn't mass produce enough moments to get her home before the creatures surrounded her friends, and perhaps she could not change deadly assault into the vandalism of an empty house, but she just might be able to give them some kind of fair warning. She could, based on her ridiculous hypotheses of late, ask time to give them that chance.

David had said it without knowing it, Suzanne had indirectly supported it within her somewhat precognitive dream, and Terry had experienced it firsthand; perhaps there WAS something to the immutable sentience of whatever might exist within linear time. A great many authors of fiction had alluded to this and more: Time itself could be alive, and not necessarily linear ... this proving to be a rather clean rationalization of God. At any rate, it couldn't be any more irrational than whatever explanation there was for those creatures... .

Now to work. No point in bemoaning her dependence upon material foci to use her magical gifts; she would like to find a paperclip. Practi-witch searched her jacket. It had become too murky to clearly see the handfuls of miscellany she pulled from her pockets.

"Hello night," she said out of habit. A passing wind did not startle her, but she dropped the handful anyway. It was too dark already. "Something unnatural," she commented, referring to what she needed rather than the rapidly approaching thunderstorm, "I'm misusing time."

Around the side of the shed she found an oily rag, a rusty slat of metal, and a piece of trash which had once been the packaging for screws or nails. It was plastic. Smiling, she returned to the front of the shed and nipped the plastic with her teeth so it would tear. "Bleah," she told the dark.

Rachel then jabbed at the keyhole on the back of the padlock. The lock was supposed to represent every ward she had ever made and placed in or near her present home. "I know you remember," she told the wards. "Do as you will: I release you." The unnatural demand from the one who set the wards was supposed to be epitomized by the plastic. Hopelessly symbolic, but all she had to offer.

Though it should not have, the lock opened. Rachel removed it from the door, dropping it to the ground. Inside the shed the blackness told her there was an open gascan. Against any possibility of prosecution, she cleaned the lock and set it by the door before wobbling quickly away with the largish metal container. Time could be very sweet to her by allowing her to return this gas as soon as possible, leaving everything the same as untouched. If it wanted to. After all, they were close friends now. Maybe.

The neighborhood seemed deserted; there were too few lights on in the surrounding residences. The sky began spitting wildly at her. She decided not to try parallel parking and stopped in the street. Outside of Beth's car was not a pleasant place to be. Rachel squinted through the rain. The kitchen light had been left on. Either no one was in there, or they were already dead.

"Gone fishing," said the note on the door. Had Beth gotten the chance to tell them to leave? What a way to discover that she really didn't understand her friends. The note had been written on a piece of David's "Moo" stationery. Without knowing why, Rachel went inside.

It was inside. It was alone. She'd been told repeatedly that she had a tendency to move too silently, now she believed the stories; it hadn't noticed her arrival. Unfortunately, she was frozen. The creature was worse than she remembered, though that perception could be different if she were not also alone.

Technically speaking, "they" had not found "us"; "they" had found her. No doubt "they" would not be satisfied with just an empty house. And her former home had become completely desolate since she'd been there last. No sense of comfort remained, all the things she had collected suddenly held no meaning. The wards had blasted every shred of her personal ambience from the place on their way to oblivion. This creature seemed confused and vaguely miffed, as if by that same fact. It would see her any second.

David's car stopped in the road, Suzanne and Beth sprang from the back seat. The creature saw them. Rachel glared at them, then shut the door. The keys jingled their goodbye to her from the outside doorhandle.

"Okay, here's the deal." They knew English, right? "I'm not really here right now, you just think I am because I'm clever." She gave it a quick 'gotcha' grin, "I won't try to insult your intelligence. You can try to kill me all you like, but you won't be able to touch me. I left. I ran screaming earlier this evening, and I'm not coming back to this house. Who would believe the things I'd have to say?"

It wasn't being fooled. It wanted a closer look.

"Doesn't seem likely that you'll come after me or my friends -- don't try to pretend otherwise; you can't leave the area without direct orders and I know it. Your master doesn't care about us, so you won't be sent." It was right next to her. Suzanne's face appeared in the window followed by Beth's. Suzanne pushed Beth back down. Then Suzanne's face went away.

Rachel took a step, making the creature turn its back to the window to keep its gaze fully on her. It was going to swing at her three ways: hard, fast, and continuously. That much was obvious. Terry peeked in and handsigned.

Two fingers pointing down swinging back and forth over his other hand. Dance? Run. Close enough.

"Without a much better reason than your petty revenge, your master won't let you waste any more time on us."

Upper hand grabs lower hand once. Down?

"You see, together the four of us are alot like your master."

Three fingers held up. Run on three.

"We don't really give a damn about you, either." And she took another painfully casual step, this time toward the door, nodding patronizingly at the creature. Terry saw her. The creature drew back from her, thinking, lost in some unknown emotion briefly.

One. It wasn't laughing. Terry looked away.

Two. She crossed her arms at it while it began the backswing. Terry's face disappeared.

"One more thing." Miraculously, it paused to listen. She couldn't think of anything to say.

Terry was back. Three.

It screamed and fell to the floor. "Have a nice day." The front door crashed open. David was outside, gesturing madly for her to run. She forced herself to walk carefully around the writhing mass of fur and wings. It was watching her go, though it wouldn't be able to see her get through the door.

"Lock up before you leave," Rachel petitioned the creature before David jerked her outside and closed the house.

There they were, running for the car again. Just like old times. Beth got a hold of Rachel's arm to be sure she ended up in the same vehicle. "You and I have alot to talk about, girlfriend."

Suzanne jumped into the back seat. "What were you saying to it?? I can't believe it didn't kill you straight away!"

Since the chaos had cleared, their immediate danger over, Rachel began to shake uncontrollably, "Pure fiction." Silence stated that neither Beth nor Suzanne had quite understood her meaning. She gave them a weak smile, "Perhaps I should write books."

"You must be the only one who's ever really spoken TO them." Beth commented, "Instead of just ordering them around or saying words at them which they are expected to accept as infallible truth."

"You two can't possibly stay in Outerville now," Suzanne coaxed. "You should move to Kent, with me and Terry."

Nervous quiet. Beth would not leave Outerville unless her mother moved also. No chance of that happening soon.

"I would have to be insane to stay here, wouldn't I?" Rachel's question was not innocent.

"No way. You have to leave. They'll find you again," Suzanne cautioned. "It will be easier now that they know your name. They'd have to know that to find your house. And Beth is in peril now, too."

"Well, I am NOT saying that this is the best place to hide, but I doubt it is the worst. I think we should all learn more about them. They have managed to -- essentially -- steal my identity, after all. Something I know they could not have done two years ago. I can't go back there at all, Suzanne; I think I bought my escape with that promise."

"Don't tell me you're going to keep a promise to those things, Rachel. What about all your stuff? How would you replace it?" Asked Beth the pragmatist.

"I've already decided, Beth, ...Suzanne. It's not my stuff anymore anyway." The conversation ended.

"I know who lives there," Beth's mother said. "I'll just give a call and explain. I'm sure they'll let you take the gascan back tomorrow." Mom Aldor was not quite an angel, neither could she quite seem to refuse to house her daughter's needy friends. That and unusual discussions were a favorite past time. Tonight she'd been utterly invaded on both counts. The hall closet had run out of blankets two strays ago, so she offered her own room, preferring "the whole scoop" to sleep. The other stories, the ones about strange occurences at Rachel's, had been wheedled from them months ago, so their story tonight had been preambled well. No one knew if she believed any of it.

The phone rang. It was ten o'clock. "Hello," said Mom Aldor's phone voice.

"No, it's not too late. It's for you, Beth."

Beth took the phone. All of the others watched her. "Yes," she said as if to say 'I'm not expecting any calls, why are you calling me?'

"It's Mike. Mike Daniels. The guy from the gas station?"

"Uh huh," she pointed at the phone and mouthed his name to her audience.

"I've got your book."