Page 221 of The End of the World As We Know It
She hands his folder back. “Why’d you do boring, useless crap? You totally could’ve been an artist, man.”
“No thanks.” He grimaces. “My dad was… Well, some days he was an actor, some days he was a musician, some days—who knows. He was one of those ‘free spirits.’ Did whatever he wanted. Never planned. Never saved. Which I know might sound fun, but our lives were chaos. It was a horrible way to grow up. So, as soon as I could, I opted for something… stable. And it’s a good thing I did, because I was able to take care of him when he was dying.”
“The flu?”
“Dementia. Early onset. Couple years ago.”
“Oof. Sorry. Dementia’s rotten. Brains and stuff? Terrifying.”
“Yeah.”Those aren’t my initials, Dad.
“Well, hey.” She offers him an infectious smile. “We’re gonna have to build the world up all over again, so… now you can be whatever you wanted to be! Somebody’s gotta draw the comic books, right? And what are people gonna do, check your references?”
He laughs. “True.” Then, deciding he can trust her with this precious cargo, he tucks the notebook into the duffel of soft goods she’s carrying.
“What’s your name, by the way?” She asks as he zips the duffel back up. “What do I call you on this great adventure?”
“Ezra,” he says without missing a beat. Without feeling the slightest pang for choosing a new identity. “Ezra Lawson.”
“A lawyer named Lawson? That’s like something out of a comic book,” she says.
He smiles.
No cars in the gas station parking lot. But two men are arguing inside the little convenience store.
Ezra and Susie freeze just as they walk in. The sound of other people’s voices is so unexpected, neither knows what to do.
The arguers don’t notice at first—their squabble continues, uninterrupted, on the other side of the store. Ezra can make words out, though he can’t draw much sense from them. The two men are frantically looking for… a door, it sounds like? Their accents are strange. Vaguely European, but ultimately unplaceable.
It’s the harried, desperate tone of the argument that makes Ezra quickly realize this might not be the safest situation. Before he can reach for the exit—
“Halt!” One of the men shouts, then both come into view, glaring at Ezra and Susie over the few aisles of supplies. Ezra raises his hands. Susie copies.
Each man is ragged. Filthy skin. Unkempt beards. Long hair, matted with dirt and threaded with grays. One is shorter and stouter. The taller man has a palpably subservient manner, despite his wild, raving eyes.
Strangest of all is their clothing. Animal skins. Fine leather straps. Ezra can’t be sure, but it looks like a sword is slung across one shoulder. They look more like refugees from Middle Earth rather than middle Utah.
The world’s already gone insane.Then, like a whisper in his mind:How long was I unconscious?
The shorter man steps into the aisle and what Ezra sees is so unexpected, so utterly absurd, he barely knows how to process it.
The man is holding a bow and arrow, nocked and pointed straight at them.
The taller one whispers, “Wait. My prince—”
The archer growls back: “No oneis to be trusted here, Dennis. Don’t you understand where we are?”
“I know, but, begging your pardon—remember what you told me? About the dreams? What if these are among the good? What if they can help us find the next door?”
“This world is dead and crumbling! We can’t waste time on more traps!Hisstench is all around us.”
Both men look—and sound—utterly mad. Taxed to the breaking point. But the second man, Dennis, seems a little more grounded. Solicitous, at the very least. Ezra addresses him. “Hey. We’re not—”
“Of whom do you dream?” Dennis interrupts quickly, as if to outpace the arrow his companion plans to fire.
Ezra blinks. “Huh?”
“Answer quick! I am Dennis, son of Brandon. This is Peter, prince of Delain. We have traveled far and—”
