He donned a beige overcoat and long black jeans. Sprawled on crusty asphalt and the stiff sidewalk, he could feel the softest pitter-patter of rain on his open palms. The warm glow of a streetlamp watched over him, dangling like ornaments on a Christmas tree.

What am I?

Something was protruding on his side. A nagging sensation. Bending over to his side revealed a brown satchel, a thin leather handle draped over his left shoulder. The worn gold button gave a clicking sound, as the satchel flap opened wide, like that of a twisting key. In lay a book, weathered with time.

Curious. Maybe this would have answers. The boy opened the book, poring over the first page.

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FONS.

That is who you are. What lies in this book will guide you through existence, should you follow its suggestions-

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The sky cried down on him. Momentarily pausing, he picked himself up, lumbering over to the framed park bench.

Fons. That is who I am.

fons...Fons.

So many more questions. Fons furrowed his brow. Was it sweat or rain?

Rain? Sweat?

What was going on?