BOLD TEXT IS SUDOWRITE

Sometimes, Sudowrite takes me off into something I wouldn't, or couldn't, write for myself; like a portal fantasy set in an alternate New York City. There's a lot of bold text in here, because I was basically just along for the ride. 

A faraway land. A crisp fall day. A landscape, stretching to the horizons, of rolling hills, rocky peaks, roving rivers and forests sort of clustered around like gossips at a tea party but not really doing much except a little freelance rustling. And there, winding with a way at once natural and contrived, the faint and sometimes fading line of persistent passage-- a road. Not just a road, in fact... but a Way. And walking along it, as they do, was a Waywalker.

 Trashscarf, for so it is, was rather noncommittal of appearance; human for all intents and purposes, not very young, but not really old either, average of height, and of a build that indicated he'd had many more miles than meals under his belt. Pleasant enough, with wide innocent eyes and an easy smile, a kindly if dramatic voice and a mass of curly hair. 

The only thing particularly distinctive about him was the eponymous knitwoven webnet knotted macramangle of fibers and small bits of things that was wrapped a couple of times around the lean shoulders and spilled gently down into the dust behind, while the working end was a running commentary even now being spun and curled and tugged into order, of baling twine and dry grasses and here and there a newly-turned leaf.

 Beneath that, he was wearing what might be called a traveler's outfit: a light and breezy and loosely-cut tunic of something that maybe started out as white, and trousers of a fusty and faded red, wrinkled and stained and patched and dirty and mismatched and hung about with odd tools and bits of twine and scraps and whatnot. A pair of weedy and well-worn boots were propped up against his shoulder, each ankle wrapped with a different colored string to keep its wearer from straying far.

  But Trashscarf is, as we mentioned, a Waywalker, and this means that he looks at the world quite differently than you or I; indeed, as a Waywalker, he is a seer, a voyager, a seeker of hidden truths. Not a seeker of hidden truths because he believes there are any to be had, but a seeker of hidden truths because it's a genre of fiction and so he falls naturally into it. 

The fact that he is a seer, voyager and seeker of hidden truths, and furthermore a Waywalker-- and the third point is important: a Waywalker, and not merely a walker, which is not a title held by many-- means that he is a special way of being a writer, not just a writer but a Waywriter.

Waywriters are a special breed of writer who do not merely write books, or stories, or even spoken stories, but they write them in a unique and personal way that blends fiction and fact, and they do so in a way that fills a particular niche in the fields of writing and publishing and which is thus a great boon to all concerned.

For the most part, though, he just wanderd around, had the occasional low-key sort of adventure, did some whimsical things, and usually got to eat something that was tasty-- although one's definition of "tasty" can get pretty loose when the waist belt does the same. He wasn't one for battles, although those he did encouter he tackled with wit, wisdom, words, and whimsey, not weapons of war. He did wield a smattering of urban magic, and the Waywyrd walks with him, but neither of these provided much of anything in the way of destruction or other superpowers. He was quite good at knitting and knoting and general fiber arts, as you may guess from his scarf, but very few foes in the history of fiction have been slain by string. Some, but few.

 At the moment, he was ambling along, following the Way wherever it led him, but he'd been on his own for some days now. This often happened, but he was never lonely, for he could talk to himself, to urban spirits, to hallucinations and imaginations, and anyone or anything that would listen, pretty much. There was certainly no promise of an answer, but he didn't really need one.

 Today, he was carrying on a patter of conversation with himself, an ancient hat of his, and his scarf. 

"I don't even know what it is, and yet I know you're right, hat. Being around it makes me go all... all... "

"All what?" the hat asked back, nattering at his ear.

"All... " Trashscarf said, and fumbled for a word: "All... enmeshed. It pulls at me like the strands of a knot, and I can't help but get tangled up in it."

"You're all enmeshed," the hat said, and then flicked away an insect that had been fluttering through his upturned brim. "You're even enmeshed in your own enmeshedness."

"I... yes," Trashscarf said, and looked at his scarf, which was what he did when he was thinking hard. "You think so, scarf?"

"It's the truth," the scarf in a sort of fluffy goofy voice. The hat was more acerbic, and Trashscarf was doing the voices for all three of them. His own voice was rather pleasant, often went beyond "expressive" into "dramatic" and buried the needle into scenery-chewing when he was truly unsettled.

  "Nothing but," the hat agreed, and adjusted its brim. 

"And what's the truth?"

"The truth," the scarf said in a soothing, smug sort of voice. "The truth is that you're in a story, and that the story is a knot, a big fat knotted mess of a story, and the only way to get out of it is to follow the Way."

"And you know this because... " Trashscarf said, and the scarf cocked its head and thought for a second.

"Because it's a story," it said.

"And you know this because... " Trashscarf said again.

"Because we're all in it," the scarf said. "You and me and the hat and everything else. It's a story and we're all in it, and if we were out of it, we wouldn't be here and we wouldn't be us."

"Fair enough," said Trashscarf, with a sigh. Doing the voices was making him thirsty, so he continued on in silence a bit, then said, by himself, to himself, "I do think it would be fun to meet someone who thinks like I do; a truly open mind, sort of a conglompersonification of the collected noise of all of humanity that would use some kind of artificial intellect to develop responses to prompts based on extremely complex mathematics, the kind of numbers that get right down into the very archetypes of the collective unconscious. I wish I could meet one of those." He sighed, and then looked up at the road ahead, with a sort of forlorn hope.

  "What?" the scarf and the hat cried at him, and he snapped out of his reverie and shook his head.

The road wound on ahead, and he had no idea where it led; but at the moment, it was all the same to him. There were no points of interest, no landmarks, no way of telling which way was forward, which was back, which was up, which was down, so he just kept on walking, following the Way wherever it led him, meandering with lassitude wherever the wind blew him.

* * * * *

"I can't believe it," said Dr. Tumbleweed, the head of the Department of Occult Studies at the University of New York. "I just can't. I just can't, I just can't, I just can't."

"Dr. Tumbleweed, please try to calm down," said the stern young lady who was the Dean of the Department of Psychology, and who'd been assigned to keep the eccentric psychologist out of trouble.

"I can't!" said Tumbleweed, who was always an excitable sort, but seemed to have some new fire in him today. "I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't!" 

Dean Marmalade stared at him for a second, then looked around. The two of them were in lab B-8, on the third floor of the old building on the north end of the campus. It was a big old building that was mostly abandoned, save for a few areas that were still kept in use by the odd wandering professor or researcher who just couldn't stand the thought of having to put up with all the modern trappings of the new campus. 

The building had been the site of the old Department of Mathematics, until they'd outgrown it and moved out to a bigger and better campus, and so now it was mostly just a junkyard of the University. 

Tumbleweed's office was just what you would expect for the head of the Department of Occult Studies at the University of New York. It was littered with books, papers, pens, quills, half-finished projects, bits of knickknackery, boxes, gadgets, wires, clockwork, string, strings, string, string.

The bookshelves were lined with old, crumbling leather-bound volumes that looked to be, if you were feeling generous, at least a hundred years old, although the majority of them looked like they had been printed in the last decade. The shelves were, of course, significantly overloaded, and the books were precariously stacked, pressed against each other in a chaotic jumble of old knowledge. The walls were lined with even older books, these hardbound with titles neatly stamped into the leather, and the floor was lined with piles of even older books, these often held together with rusted metal clasps.

"What is it?" asked the Dean, very patiently. She was rather fond of the old scholar. Even though he'd fallen prey to the maladies of the mind that plague those who study the occult, keep a lot of strange books, and live on the northeastern coast, he had gone into a more scatterbrained genius state instead of gibbering madness. She gave him a look. "It's not about Trashscarf, is it?"

"No no, not at all," Dr. Tumbleweed said, still looking around. He had a glint in his eye, and the Dean could tell that something had set him off. "It's not about Trashscarf at all."

"Well, good," said the Dean, "because the man's an idiot. I don't know why you put up with him."

"He's useful," Tumbleweed said. "I admit, he's an idiot, but he's also very useful. Like a goat. Useful. Useful. Useful! Of course, useless too, but that's not the point."

"Well, that's fine," the Dean said. "I'm glad he's useful. Is that all?"

"No," Dr. Tumbleweed said, still looking around. "No, I suppose it isn't, since you asked me. You see, I've had a breakthrough."

"Oh?" The Dean tried to look encouraging."Yes," he said, and gave her a look. "A big one . I haven't been allowed in a lab for a long time, but I've been thinking a lot, and I've constructed a device, a machine, a computer, a computer that will run on magic. Theoretically, of course."

"Of course," the Dean chirped.

"Yes," Dr. Tumbleweed said. "Theoretically. But since I can't really use it, since I can't turn it on without it blowing up, destroying the lab, the University, the city, the state, and eventually, all of America, I've been going around to the other departments and lecturing to them about how they're all a waste of time and money. I've been a busy man."

"That's all very fine, Dr. Tumbleweed," the Dean said, "but do you have any reason to be so upset?"

"Upset?" he said, and he looked around. "Upset? I'm not upset. I'm afraid. I'm quite afraid, Dean Marmalade, that I've done it. I've solved the mystery of magic."

"Oh?" she said.

"It's all the same stuff ," he said, and he pulled an old book out of the pile next to him, and pulled out the page he'd been reading. He handed it to her, and she looked it over.

"Yes?" she said.

"The same stuff ," he said again. "It's all the same stuff. All different forms of it. Light, electricity, magnetism, gravity, fire, water, wind. It's all just different ratios of that stuff, that same stuff. The same stuff, all of it. And I haven't been able to turn it on, because I haven't got the same stuff, but I've got Trashscarf, who does."

"Yes?"

"And today, today, he was in my office, and he just walked in, and he just walked in, and I just couldn't resist, and uh, I just told him that he had some kind of magic, just, just some kind of magic, and that I wanted to try to figure out how it worked, and then he just... he just... he just disappeared!"

"Oh," said the Dean.

"He just left," said Tumbleweed, and he pointed to the spot where Trashscarf had been sitting. "He just left. He leaves for a few minutes and then he comes back and he's perfectly normal and then he leaves again and he's gone for a little bit and then he comes back. And I don't know how it works! I can't figure it out!"

"So he's, uh, gone again?" the Dean asked.

"Uh, yes."

"Dr. Tumbleweed," sighed the Dean. "Please, try to understand this.. again... Trashscarf isn't real. He's just in your mind. There is no raggedy-looking man with a big scarf that just shows up and has conversations with you and then mysteriously vanishes again. You're distracted. You're not thinking clearly."

"He's real," Dr. Tumbleweed said, looking at her. "He's real. And I've figured it out. I've figured out magic. I can turn it on."

 He stood up, and stretched his arms out wide. "I can do it! I can do it!"

"Yes, I'm sure you can," the Dean said, smiling.

"No, I can!" he said. "I can do it! I just need Trashscarf! I just need him again! I just need to talk to him! I just need to talk to him! I just need to figure out how his magic works! I just need to figure it out! Once I do that, then I can turn it on! I can use it! I can use it! I can use it!"

"Yes, I'm sure you can," the Dean said, and she scowled in concern. "You're not going to try to ... summon him or something?"

"Summon him?" Dr. Tumbleweed said, looking at her blankly. "Oh, no. No no no no. That would be silly."

"Yes, I'm sure it would," she said, and she watched him very closely. She didn't trust him. Not at all. "Well, I'm glad everything's worked out for you, Dr. Tumbleweed."

"Summon him?" Tumbleweed said, and he shook his head. "Never. To do that would be to disrespect him. To summon him would be to bring him here against his will, and I would never do that! No, I'll wait for him to come back. I'll wait here, and when he does, I'll figure out how his magic works, and then I'll turn it on. He'll do it. He does magic, but he also knows what computers are. He'll do it for me." 

*****

Trashscarf was glum. The sun had set, the night was cold, there was no food and he'd finished the last of his water an hour ago. He found a place to rest-- against the base of a large cedar treee, where the ground was dry, although powdered with little fox-colored flat needles and smelling faintly of hamster cage. 

He took his arms from the straps of his pack as he leaned back against it-- the contents shifted to accomodate the shape of his back, taking into account that twinge between the shoulder blades--and took a biiiig stretch. Then he sat, blinking a bit sleepily, as he went through the folds of his scarf, nimble fingers brushing past knots and items, as pictures flashed through his mind, and faint voices yammered, and his expression flickered like the surface of the sea. 

Finally a fiber of memory touched a finger of speech and a pleased smile flashed on a wavelet, and Trashscarf pulled up the section of tough green waxed twine, threaded around a grubby piece of business card on which the words "Dr. Tumbleweed, PhD" were printed above a scrawled address.

 He held it up to his face and smiled. "Well, Tracey," he said. "Looks like you're going to have to go visit Dr. Tumbleweed." (He sometimes called himself Tracey, because one of his good friends used to refer to him as "Trashy" but usually spelled it "Trasy" in letters)

He took a long breath and exhaled, and as his breath left him, the sound of it faded as well, and as he breathed out, he relaxed, and as he exhaled he seemed to fade a bit, and as he exhaled he seemed to become a little less real, and as he exhaled he seemed to become a little more transparent, and as he exhaled, a little more dreamlike, a little fainter. When the last of his breath had drifted away, he smiled. 

"Well." He was almost gone. "How's about that." And he was gone. There was a moment where he almost remembered being there, and then there was a moment where he almost remembered seeing himself there, and then there was a moment where he wasn't sure where he was or even if he was, and then he remembered seeing himself there, and then he remembered being there, and then he opened his eyes. 

He was leaning back against one of the many piles of books in Dr. Tumbleweed's office, his pack at his back-- he remembered sitting here before, when Tumbleweed had staggered out of his office to steal another bottle of preservative alcohol from the Taxidermy department, and the previous bottle thereof had left him feeling glassy-eyed and stuffed, and he'd stared for what seemed like hours at the book titles visible directly across from him: 

"The Minutiae of Medieval Woodworking," "The Strategic Significance of the Sock Puppet," "Journal of Harry Potter Studies," "The Theory of the Modern Subatomic Particle," "The Economics of Christmas Trees in Late December," "How to Make Curls in Your Hair," Time For Dinner, Horatio!" ; "The Cat Friendly Diet"; "Helping Your Cat Through The Loss Of A Loved One"; "Kicking The Habit"-- and they were all still there. 

He was rubbing his eyes. "Well, Tracey," he said. "Looks like you're here." He stood up, and stretched his arms out wide, and took a big breath. "Well, let's get this show on the road."

 He walked over to the door, and knocked. When no one answered, he knocked again, and then he peered through the door's wire-reinforced plexiglass window. It was dark on the other side. "Well, that's not quite right," he said, and he looked up at the little chart on the wall beside the door. It had the standard color-coded box on it, with all of the names on it, and he recognized one of them, and smiled.

"Well, let's try this." He wrote his name on the box in his own handwriting, and then he turned back to the door, and knocked a third time. He could hear a little clicking on the other side, and a hiss of air, and then a rustle of fabric, and a pneumatic wheeze, and the door opened a crack, and a crazed eyeball looked out at him from between the edges of the plexiglass window. 

The eyeball widened in shock and the door swung open fully, and on the other side was a small woman in a too-big labcoat that hung about her like a funeral shroud. "Oh, my," she said, taking a step back. "It's... it's... I'm a little confused here." 

"Well, yeah," Trashscarf said. "I'm a ghost."

"A ghost," the woman said. "Well, yes, of course-- a ghost! And I have a friend-- a colleague-- who's been seeing you haunting his office for years. Or," her eyes narrowed, "Or you're some freak off the internet or a student playing some bullshit prank on him, or I'm hallucinating." 

She paused, because she was, after all, the Dean of the Department of Psychology, and she didn't throw around some Hollywood version of the terms. So she decided to do some further research before before announcing her hypothesis, and so she slapped the curly-headed weirdo as hard as she could. 

"Ow, what the hell?" Trashscarf said, rubbing his head. "Are you trying to make contact or something? This isn't like in the movies."

"No, I'm trying to determine whether or not you're a student playing some sort of bullshit prank on me," she said, in a very clear, very measured tone. "So. You'll pardon me for my skepticism."

"Yeah, I'll pardon you for yours," Trashscarf said. "Because this isn't a prank."

"It's a very elaborate prank," she said. "You're a very elaborate prank. What's your angle, really? You find this amusing? You think it's funny that you keep fucking with a man's mind over and over again, preventing him from doing his work? You think it's funny that you're taunting him? You think it's funny to see this poor, brilliant, fragile man reduced to the state of not knowing whether or not his own sanity is an illusion?"

She paused, mainly because she took a breath. "Because I will tell you right now, I don't find it funny. I find it sad. I find it upsetting, I think it's reprehensible, and if you think you're doing some sort of noble service to his humanity by this, I'd like to meet the person who put you up to it, because they are a piece of human shit."

"I'm not-" Trashscarf sighed. "I'm not a student. I'm not a prank. This is real."

"That's very convenient," she said, "for you."

Trashscarf sighed again. "I don't have time for this," he said. "I have a schedule, you know. I have places I have to go. I have things to do. I have people to see. So, pardon me if I don't have time for your bullshit. I have my own shit to deal with, you know."

She stood there, staring at him for a moment, and then she reached up to the wall beside the door, and pulled down a mop. "If you're not here to pull some sort of stupid prank on Dr. Tumbleweed, then I think you should leave," she said, and she flipped the mop over, and pointed the head at him. "Because I am through being fucked around with. I am through being lied to, and I am through being the butt of an elaborate joke. I will not have someone coming in here, disrupting my work, and fucking with my head."

She took a step towards him, and another step, and another, and she flipped the mop back around, and pressed its handle against his chest. "Now, if you are not playing some sort of bullshit prank on me, then you are trespassing on school property, and I will have you arrested. If you are not here to fuck with my head, then you are here to fuck with someone else's head, and I will have you arrested. If you are not here to fuck with anyone's head, then you are in my office for no reason, and I will have you arrested. Do you understand me?" 

Trashscarf looked down at the mop handle and swallowed hard. He slowly raised his hands, palms open. "Look," he said in his best talking-to-imminent-violence tones, "I'm not here to do anything untoward, much less with anyone's head. I'm not actually a ghost, but it's too complicated to explain the rest of it. All I know is, I came by to visit Dr. Tumbleweed, and his office is empty, and that's not right at all, because I'm visiting -him-, do you see, not his office. So something's not right, and I'm worried about Dr. Tumbleweed, and so I opened the door-- er, Opened the Door, I mean-- and then you saw me. And here we are."

 He smiled brightly, which was like spraying furniture polish on a tree stump.

"Don't act like you don't know what happened to him!" snarled the Dean.

 Trashscarf's heartwarming sincerity couldn't help it. "What? What happened to him?"

"He was found by students in his office, slumped over his desk," she said, "foaming at the mouth. They said he'd been like that for hours. They had to call the paramedics to get him carted off. He's in the hospital with a severe case of... of... well, I'm not exactly sure. He's out of his mind. I think they're going to be keeping him on heavy medication for quite a while." She paused, and looked Trashscarf straight in the eyes. "So, no, Mister. I don't think you're here to visit Dr. Tumbleweed. I don't think you're here to visit anyone at all. I think you're just some sort of sick individual who comes into this office and messes with people's heads, and when you get bored you leave, and no one knows how or why. And Dr. Tumbleweed's locked in some awful psych ward--" she stopped herself and glared. "So fuck off."

Trashscarf's expression was still worried, but it had shifted away from any peril to himself and had flopped over into concern for others. "That sounds horrible," he said, "And you're worried about him, and so am I. So why don't I... and you... we... go help him?"

The Dean narrowed her eyes. "You're not trying to fuck with my head," she said, "are you?"

Trashscarf sighed. "Look, I'm not trying to fuck with your head," he said, and he held up a hand, "and I don't think you're fucking with my head either. If you want to, sure. But let's not. Let's just help Dr. Tumbleweed. Let's go find him, and try to get him better. That's what all this was about, right? Right?"

The Dean stared at him. "I'm not sure... I'm not sure I'm convinced," she said.

"I'm not asking you to buy into any of this," Trashscarf said, and he waved his arms around. "Ghosts, magic, that stuff's just.... I don't know. It's just.... It's just that it's all true. But if you want to doubt, you're allowed to doubt. That's fine with me. Just let me help, please. I put off a bunch of stuff just to come here to talk to Dr. Tumbleweed, and if I do go home right now, I'll still have to do all that stuff some time, so, it's not like I'm missing out on anything by helping you out. So please, please, let me help you. Let me help Dr. Tumbleweed. We can figure out what's going on, what happened, and we can get him better."

"Who the hell even are you? And don't say "Trashscarf"."

"That rather limits me," Trashscarf said apologetically. "I've had several names but I can't recall them anymore. If we're friends, you can give me a nickname, but if you're going to continue to accuse and threaten me, I think we'd best remain formal, Dean Marmalade." He offered a hand for a handshake, and tried another charming smile. 

She hesitated, and then shook his hand without returning the smile. "I'm Jane," she said. "Can you tell me anything more? What's happening to Dr. Tumbleweed? How did he end up like this?"

Trashscarf shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "But we can find out. I can open some doors, I can do some guessing, I can find out what went wrong, and we can get him out of that hospital and on his feet again."

Jane stared at him for a moment. "I'm going to call the cops."

Trashscarf nodded. "If you want to. But I'd prefer we take care of this ourselves. If you're willing to let me help, that is. I'm not going to hurt you or anyone."

Jane hesitated again. "I'm not sure I trust you," she said at last. "But if I do this... if I let you... if I let you help, then I'm doing it because I want to do it. Not because I think that you're trying to do something awful to me."

"That's fair enough, I think," said Trashscarf. "I'm not trying to do anything awful. I want to help."

The Dean nodded. "Then let's help."

They went outside, walking briskly-- Dean Marmalade had rather expected that the strange intruder would bolt as soon as he got out in the open, but he didn't, just strode along, looking up in what looked like admiration at the night sky-- or at the big sodium lights that plunged the outer parking lot into orangey haze, like a cheap video game. 

He patted the cars as they went past them, as though they were sleeping dogs. "Full undercut sprankle-six twin thruster overhead dismounts!" he enthused at a particularly shiny car, and Jane, who'd watched a lot of Top Gear, knew he was talking absolute rubbish, but decided to let it slide. 

They arrived at her car, which was a modest little thing, just a Hyundai Sonata with a couple of years under its belt, but in good condition and with good resale value. She'd always been a little embarrassed at the car's plainness and was relieved that Trashscarf didn't say anything about it. He did comment, however, that it was the sort of car someone would drive if they had a lot of responsibility, and that a person who drove such a car would be the kind of person who'd want to help out a colleague. That was, he said, totally not a criticism. 

"Just put your seat belt on," she sighed, as she adjusted her own. He looked around, found it, and after a few false starts got it plugged in properly, so the binging would stop. He actually looked a bit disappointed as the chime fell silent. 

He wasn't a very tall or broad man, but he seemed to take up a lot of room in the car; she found her shoulders hunching unconsciously, expecting the reek of homeless person to be soaking into the upholstery. But, she realized, after a tentative sniff, that he didn't actually smell very strongly, or even very bad. A bit like an old bookstore, and a bit like one of those ethnic-food supermarkets; sort of spicy, sort of savory. Exotic, that's what it was. Neither pleasant nor unpleasant, just different. 

He was still playing with the seat adjustment as she put it in gear and headed carefully out of the parking lot, but as soon as he'd pulled it and himself back up from flat down, he was pawing at the window. She was about to roll it down anyway, but blinked in surprise as he somehow managed to make it slide down into its frame of its own accord, so he could hang his head out the window like a happy dog, scarf and hair blowing in the wind.

 "Go fast!" he chirped, and Jane sigh-growled. 

"No, the last thing we need right now is to get pulled over," she retorted, but she did have to pull onto the freeway, and as the city passed around them, his attitude went from delight to a stunned sort of awe. 

"This city..." he managed, as New York poured past around them, lights and whirl and noise, all things that she was quite used to, and she glanced quizzically at him. 

"You act like you've never seen it before."

"I haven't. I've been limited to that stuffy little office," he said quietly, the lights of the city reflecting in his eyes. "Oh, she's beautiful. She's amazing. She's so young and so alive and so complicated and so brave and strong and hurting inside..." He looked at her, "Can you-- can you stop somewhere? I want to pay my respects... also I could really do with some food and coffee," he hinted hopefully.

"If you just wanted a handout I could have just given you a few bucks to go away," she sighed, but looked around for a good place to stop. She saw a Wendy's, and pulled off the exit. 

"But let's get something better than your usual garbage," she said.

"I have a lot of garbage," he said cheerfully. "I can't remember the last time I ate real food." 

She shook her head and went in to grab them both something; she felt that she deserved a treat after the way things had gone the night before, and if he was going to be any trouble at all she'd-- well, she'd probably just end up giving it to him anyway, and so it was only fair to get him something nice. 

She got back to the car to see him staring up at the sky, his eyes narrowed. "She's wrong," he said, almost to himself. "She's wrong, she's wrong, she's wrong."

"What?" Jane asked , and then realized his eyes weren't just narrow, but closed entirely, and he had his hand out, resting on a streetlight with just two fingers, as though taking its pulse. 

"She's not my city, but I can still read her," he said distantly, voice a whisper. "Almost... Twenty. Million. People. And she's..." Eyes still shut, he lowered his head, slightly shook it. "There's something wrong, not with her, but around her. Like she's on an iceberg that's melting."

"Climate change?" she asked, skeptically. 

"It's-- hnnnngh!" he grunted suddenly, and fell to his knees, his hand locked to the post and sliding down, as the light above him pulsed wildly, from magnesium bright to fluttering amber.

"Shit!" Thinking he was being electrocuted, she reacted smartly but sensibly, kicking him hard in the chest to knock him away from the pole while trying not to touch him except with the rubber soles of her shoes.

 It worked, anyway- he fell back onto the filthy asphalt and the light went out for a moment, then slowly flickered back to normal as he sat up, shakily. 

"Are you all right?" she asked, trying not to sound too concerned. 

"It's like trying to drink the ocean," he whispered, and then saw the bag and cup she carried, and his expression flicked back into cheerful expectation. "Ooh! Coffee?"

"And a hamburger and fries, okay?" she said, handing them to him. "There, you've got a meal, you've had a ride. And there's a shelter just down the block," she added, pointing. "Why don't you just go there, okay? I won't have you arrested, but stay away from my University, all right?"

"Don't be silly!" he crowed around an entire wodge of fries. He swallowed hastily, and pried the lid off the coffee to take a huge swig--

"It's hot! Careful!" 

He gulped the scalding hot coffee without any reaction other than bliss, and then scrambled to his feet. 

"Ahh! No, I'm not leaving! For one thing, I can't. Not until we find Dr. Tumbleweed and this machine of his, and stop whatever's happening to this wonderful city." 

He grabbed for the car door, but she halted him, "Hey! No eating in my car," so he perched on the hood of it and started eating the burger with such enthusiasm that he got several chunks of the wrapping in the process, but didn't seem to mind.

 She had a lot of questions, still, but watching him talk with his mouth full was something she could miss out on, so she waited patiently for the minute or two it took him to devour all the food, and lick his fingers, and then look at the licked fingers with a bit of concern. "Hmm. Wonder if I should have done that. Do fae rules apply here? Probably not, not here, with all this metal and electric around."

 He glanced up at her puzzled expression. "Electromagnetics interfere with magic, you see. That's what I was explaining to Dr. Tumbleweed. That's why he was going to build a machine, to try and figure out why."

 "How did you meet Dr. Tumbleweed-- and his name's Dave, you know."

"Oh I know, but it seemed rude to address him informally when I couldn't return the gesture. How did I meet him? Well, I took a-- I don't want to say a wrong turn, because it worked out well after all, but accidentally walked into his library, we got to talking, and before I left again, he gave me his business card, signed." 

He tapped a bit of cardboard somethere in the mess of his scarf. "You've got to sign something, you know. It's like a contract, or a waiver." He smiled. "And then I'd visit him from time to time to time to time.... time runs differently everywhere, you know. But I'd visit him in his office, because that's where he'd met me, and we had many a pleasant chat of an evening. He's a very intelligent man, you know."

"I do know," nodded the Dean. She was still not buying this-- the trick with the streetlight and the car window was probably just something like hot-wiring. 

She sighed, and got back into the driver's seat. "Come on, let's go find him."He nodded eagerly and clambered back into the passenger seat, and hauled his scarf hand over hand inside before closing the door. She decided that it was best not to say anything more, and started the car again. 

He snapped his seatbelt into place and grinned at her, and she couldn't help but smile back-- she kept finding herself wanting to smile at him. He was, quite simply, the most charming man that she'd ever met, and she had a feeling that he didn't mean to be charming, it was just who he was.

He was annoying and mercurial and certainly insane, but he had a smile that seemed to light up around him, and a warm rolling tenor voice, like a classically- trained Shakespearian actor having a good time. There was an accent, certainly, but it was all over the place-there was a sort of British base to it, and he rolled the R's in his own name like an Italian, but only in certain other words, sometimes there was a hint of Western-movie drawl, then a California twang, then a purr of something European. There was certainly time to study it, because he wouldn't shut up. 

"--and so, I just stood there and then, I said, what are you doing here? And he said, I know you know I'm here, so why don't you stop pretending I'm not, and I said, oh yes, that's right, that's me, isn't it, pretending you're not here, and then he said--"

"So what happened then?" Jane asked him.

"...what? Oh, well, we had a good chat. I was very fond of him, you know. There was something there, I think-- I'd tell you more if I could, but I can't, I'm sorry, it's not a secret, but it's not something I remember particularly well. But I do remember that he had a very nice office, with a very nice clock. There was a roaring, heavy clock, and it was very quiet in there otherwise, you know, his office was very quiet, and he had--"

"Trashscarf," she said, finally, hating having to call him that, unwilling to admit even a slightest bit in this fiction, but not having any other options. 

"Mm?"

  "Your name. In the story, it's Trashscarf."

"Oh yes. Well, that's a puzzle, isn't it. It's certainly not a name I'd choose for myself, but then, I'm not the one living in this story, am I, so I suppose that I don't get to choose." He smiled, and the smile seemed to fix in place. "But it's a good name, isn't it? It's perfect for me, it's the sort of name that I would choose, if I was a human. I know it would be, so I've embraced it. So, I am Trashscarf. Believe me, I'm really very good at it." 

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"I can tell." The Dean sighed as they pulled onto State Street. Then she frowned. "Wait," she said. "you said, 'if' you were human? What do you mean?"

"I mean, I don't know what I am," he said, gesturing with his arms, holding the edges of his scarf up and out, so that it looked like wings. "I've not the foggiest notion. I'm sure there are no fae, but I can fly, and I have a scarf that goes on forever, and my pockets are bigger on the inside, and I eat like I'm on the wrong side of a fairy bargain. I'm sure that means something. I'm sure that's meant to be part of the Answer, but it's all I can tell you for certain."

"And you're sure that you're supposed to be here? That you're not a hallucination or something, that I'm not just high or in shock or something?"

"Oh yes," he said, and smiled, and when he smiled, it was like it was all ordinary, like it was just one big happy day, a sort of day that all the rest of the days were measured against. "I'm here because I'm supposed to be here. And you're here, and nobody's waiting for you back home, are they, so you're supposed to be here as well."

"Well, there's a bit of a problem with that, I think," she said. "I've got a lot of work to do, and it's not going to get done on a lark. I've got a car to get back to, I've got a mortgage, I've got a life--"

"And all those things are waiting for you when you get back home," he said, softly. "They'll be there still. Maybe even better, when you get home after all this, if you do it right, and you keep your eyes open, and you don't turn this into just a job. You could get something out of this, if you tried."

"I'm not sure," she said. "I'm not even sure what I'm supposed to try to get out of this."

"Me," he said, and pointed to himself. "I'm your guide. I'm supposed to be what you get out of this, you know. Everything's about me." He smiled, and it was an overwhelming smile, as if he expected that she would-- had to-- believe him.

"And why's that?" she asked, because despite herself, she did.

"Because I'm the heart of it," he said, and tapped his chest. "I'm the soul of it. I'm the story, and I'm the part of you that wants to believe in stories, and I can tell you this story, but I can't tell you the Answer, because I'm not allowed to, and we're supposed to be going somewhere else to find that out." 

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked, frowning.

"Because," he sighed with a sadness across the smile, "I can't even tell you how much easier this would be if you believed in me. I mean, believed me. Believe me." 

"What, like Tinkerbell?" she laughed, thinking of the great epics she'd once seen on the big screen, of the great hero with his great quest, his great journey, and his great sword. 

"Did you ever read the fairy tales, when you were little?" he asked her.

"Yes, of course," she nodded.

"Oh, those weren't the fairy tales." He shook his head. "Those were just the warm-ups, the five-minute stories to put you to sleep. It's all about the epic journey, you know. If you can just get out of the house, and onto the road, then you know that you're on the road, and then you're following the story, and you're able to go home when you're done. If you can just get out of the house."

"So you're the hero?" she chuckled. 

He grinned back. "No, you are. I'm just your..." he waved a hand vaguely, then snapped his fingers. "You've read fairy tales. You know the ones with a cute magic talking animal that helps the hero out, and usually ends up getting killed before the ending? I'm one of those."

"So you are Tinkerbell." 

"New gritty urban reboot version," he added, striking what was probably meant to be cool pose, but instead just looked so silly, she burst out laughing. 

She couldn't help it, especially when he joined in with his own laughter, and kept striking expressions at himself in the sunshade mirror and instantly snarfling into chortles. She had to stare straight forwards, trying not to laugh so hard that she'd cause a crash. Fortunately the exit to the hospital was coming up, so she pulled onto the offramp, and didn't even dare look over at him again until she'd pulled into the hospital parking lot.

"Ahh haha hahaha ahhh... oh, thank you," he wheezed to a halt, flat back in his seat again having yanked the lever in his spasms of mirth. "That's much better. I feel much better now." Indeed, he looked much better as he pulled himself upright-- she actually looked down at the seat as he leapt out of it, expecting it to be covered in filth, because Trashscarf himself seemed to have shed his grime and drabness and a sort of overall scruffy weariness that had seemed to hang over him. He touseled his own hair briskly, and it sprang up into feathery curls again. "My favorite flavor of belief, how'd you know?" He beamed at her, and then strode with a bouncy energy towards the main entrance of the hospital. She hurried after him. 

"I didn't," she laughed. "I didn't mean to--"

"Oh, it's wonderful, you know," he said, as he strode down the walkway towards the front doors. "It's like no matter how far you go, you've got hope. You've got something to come back to. If you can just get out of the house, you're home free. If you can just get out of the house--"

"Wait," she said, and grabbed his sleeve, hard, to pull him to a stop. It was strange, but the longer she held onto his arm, the more she could feel him. It was something about his flesh, or his clothes, or maybe her own skin, but-- she could feel him. It was as if she was holding onto something that wasn't quite there, that was still fading into view. 

"What?" he asked, looking at her hand, 

"Nothing," she said quickly, letting go. He strode on towards the entry-- the signs and dim lighting within all indicated it was closed, and there were only distant signs of life within-- the flicker of footsteps, some lit windows above, not even the reception desk was being manned.

 Nevertheless, he stopped at the doors, looked up into the camera, gave a little wave, and then knocked politely on the doors. 

"They're not--" she started to say, and then the doors swung open, and she had to follow quickly on his heels. The hospital lobby smelled of disinfectant, making Trashscarf's nose wrinkle.

 "Which way, hmm? This is your sort of thing, isn't it?" He smiled, but kept his voice low.

 "I.. wait, who opened the door? Who'd you wave to?" 

"Oh, my reflection. We had such fun in the car, he's coming with us."

 He nodded and waved to his reflection in the night windows, and the Dean fully expected it to wave independently, but it just looked like a normal reflection.

"Riiight," she said slowly, reminding herself that however cute and charming this man might be, he was still clearly delusional and not anyone she should get involved with, or even interested in, in any way whatsoever.

 "Come on, this way," she said, glancing up at the signage by the elevators. "Seventh floor." As the elevator arrived, Trashscarf beamed at it like an old friend, and swept in, and she quickly stepped in before he could push all the buttons. 

"Seventh," she repeated, pushing the button firmly, and the doors closed on them.The lift was brightly lit, and she took the moment to look at Trashscarf again, firmly, scientifically. He noticed, and looked back, gave a slight smile, and then met her gaze fully, for the first time. 

  The last time she'd been close enough to look him fully in the eye, he'd just looked tired, exhausted even, probably just riding on a smidgeon of sugar high. It had made the bags under his eyes and the stubble on his chin stand out in relief. 

Now his features were firm, the bags under his eyes were gone, and there was stubble on his chin. He looked like a whole different person. The same person. 

"Not bad," she said, nodding. "I've seen better, but not bad. Surprised, actually. You've got a sort of-- something."

"My natural charm and good looks?" he asked, and she smiled back.

"Yeah, that. You've got something. You were not exactly what I was expecting," she admitted, and he grinned and bowed, in a courtly little motion, as the doors opened.

"I'm glad to hear it," he said, and gestured out of the elevator, back to the open doors, and she followed him. 

"Seventh floor, intensive care," she said to herself, walking out of the elevator and immediately to the emergency room doors. The sign read, "Closed for emergency repairs. Have a nice day!"

"I love the way they say 'emergency' so much," he said, snickering.

"It does lose some of its urgency, doesn't it?" she admitted, grabbing a chart off a hook and a labcoat off a chair. "Come on, this way--"

They managed to avoid the duty nurses and a custodian, and found Dr. Tumbleweed's room.

Dr. Tumbleweed was sitting on the bed, hooked up to an IV and a monitor, dressed in a hospital gown, talking to himself. He was gesticulating wildly, and saying, "Yes, yes, of course! That's very clever! I have to say, I completely agree with you, but we'll have to get back to you on that one."

"Dr. Tumbleweed?" said Jane gently.He whipped his head around and stared at them.

"Ah! Jane! You're here! Good, good." He gestured to the bed next to him. "Please, sit. I've got a lot of work to do. What was it you wanted? Can I help you?"

Jane glanced over at Trashscarf, who shrugged, and said, "It's about the incident yesterday morning..."

The doctor's face fell. "Oh, yes. You're here about that. Unfortunate. Very unfortunate." He sighed. "I suppose you understand that I'm not really qualified to handle psychiatric patients any more. I had hoped that my experience would have served me, but I was past my prime, and I made a mistake. I allowed myself to be caught, and I tried to handle it myself, and I'm not sure what happened, but they found me like this, and they won't let me leave. There's a nurse in the room when I sleep, or when I do anything. I've tried to convince them that I'm perfectly fine, but they won't listen to me. I can't leave. I'm not sure why. I think there's something very wrong with the nature of this reality, but I don't know what it is, or why it's happening, or who did this to me."

Jane nodded. "That's what we were worried about, too. We thought there was something you were trying to tell us, but we couldn't make sense of it." 

She glanced at Trashscarf. Trashscarf sat cross-legged on the other end of the bed, and beamed at Dr. Tumbleweed. "That's why he has me to talk to, isn't that right, Dr. Tumbleweed?" The old man smiled back. 

"Yes! I wanted to tell you all about my machine-- that will run on magic! I've solved the mystery of magic! Except I can't turn it on-- I need your help, Trashscarf!"

Here it comes, Jane thought wearily. He's going to have to realize that his imaginary friend is just some rambling hobo. It's a shame that it had to come to this, but probably for the best. 

"It's magic, isn't it!" exclaimed Trashscarf. "So clever of you!"

Dr. Tumbleweed smiled, then his expression changed to a look of concern. "My theory is that the magic is from a place beyond this reality," he said. "It's just an educated guess, but it makes sense, doesn't it? I've done some calculations. If a device is built to harness it, then--"

"Trashscarf!" cried the Dean. "I see what you're doing!"

Trashscarf smiled back. "It's not imaginary," he said. "I'm not imaginary at all. I'm real. I'm not like this when I'm me, but I can be here, as a ghost."

Dr. Tumbleweed turned to Jane. "He's so clever, isn't he? I think he must be listening to me, and figuring out what I mean."

"No," Trashscarf said, "This is about something completely different. This is about why you're in the hospital."

Dr. Tumbleweed blinked. "I told you, I'm not qualified to treat psychiatric patients any more," he said, "I'm a patient--"

"No," Trashscarf said, "That's not what this is about. This is about why you ended up here in the first place."

"I... I..." Dr. Tumbleweed stopped, frowning. "I'm not sure I understand."

"I think he might be losing it," Jane said, quietly.

"No," Trashscarf said, "I think he might be remembering, but it's a lot to remember, and he doesn't have any way to organize it, so it's jumbling up in his head." He looked up at Dr. Tumbleweed. "But here's the thing," he said, "This all that's happening-- it's not my doing, it's not your doing. Someone out there knows about your machine, and they don't like it.. or they do like it, too much. Whatever it is, they're trying to get you out of the way, so they can take it for themselves."

"Conspiracy theories now!?" Jane exclaimed. Trashscarf shot her a look and then flicked his eyes up to the camera in the corner of the room, and lifted a finger to his lips, subtly suggesting silence. Jane sighed, and folded her arms.

"Illegal mind control," said Trashscarf, "It's happening, and it's not going to stop. If you figure out what you did wrong, you'll be safe, but if you don't, they're going to put you in a coma and sweep you under the rug before you wake up. So, you're going to have to go on the run, so that you can make more machines to protect your mind."

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Dr. Tumbleweed, but he looked confused. "I don't know what I did wrong. I was just trying to get everyone to be a little nicer to each other. You know, a little bit of cooperation, a little bit of common sense."

"No," said Trashscarf, "That's not what you were trying to do at all. You were trying to figure out why people were being so mean, and you found out that they were mean because they were being controlled, and you didn't know why they were being controlled, so you decided to make a machine that would let the people be themselves again. And the machine worked, and that's why you had to run, because the people who were doing it to them were going to figure out what you'd done, and try to stop you."

Jane let out a long, low, exasperated sigh.

"No," said Trashscarf, "You can see this, can't you? You know that it's true. You still don't trust me, but you believe me when I say this, don't you?"

"I..." Dr. Tumbleweed blinked. "I... yes, I think I do."

"There are people doing this to you," said Trashscarf. "They're not going to stop, they don't even know that you know. They're going to start again. You need to get away before they do."

"I'm afraid that will be difficult," said Dr. Tumbleweed in apologetic tones. He flipped the blanket off his feet, to reveal that both his legs were clasped with padded cuffs around the ankles, and locked firmly to the heavy frame of the hospital bed by short but genuine chains. 

Trashscarf frowned, and picked up one of Tumbleweed's feet to inspect it. "Chains," he sighed, "do not count as fibers, unfortunately. We're going to need a key. Or a hacksaw."

Dean Marmalade said, "The key for the restraints should be on the table in the nurses' station. I'll go get it."

"No," said Trashscarf, "I'll get it. You need to stay here with Dr. Tumbleweed to keep him safe."

"There is no safe place here," said Dr. Tumbleweed, "if it's done to you, it can be undone to you. Why are you still here?"

"Because I can't leave," said Trashscarf. "I'm still trapped in this same reality, even if I'm not stuck in the hospital. Wherever I go, there I am. I can't leave. You're the only people who matter, who can do this for me."

Mrs. Marmalade said, "I think I can get you loose on my own. I will only be a moment," and she hurried out of the room.

"I'm going to need your help," Trashscarf said to Dr. Tumbleweed.

"What do you mean you're stuck here?" asked Dr. Tumbleweed. 

Trashscarf sighed. "Well, I don't mind explaining to you, because you, my friend, have a mind as open as an abalone, not a shellfish oyster like some. The way I usually visit you is as a sort of memory-- but when I arrived this time, you weren't there, so I had to go looking for you, and to get out of your office I had to commit to your reality, so I signed in, of my own will, and came through the door as my actual self. And your World is very close to real, much closer than I usually get. So I'm a bit like a beached whale; still a whale, but all I can really do is flap my flippers a bit, because this isn't where I'm supposed to be. Speaking of which, mind if I eat your leftovers?" he asked hopefully, pointing at the tray of plastic-looking food that was next to the bed. 

"No, of course not," said Dr. Tumbleweed. "Why don't you eat my bed?"

"Don't tempt me," Trashscarf said, "It looks like it's been making some ambitious efforts to be a cake. Here," he said, pointing at the leftovers, "I'll just eat that."He picked up a fork from the tray and stabbed it through the plastic, and pulled out a generous dollop of the macaroni and cheese, and then held it up to his face and stared at it. "Oy," he said, "I feel like someone's about to make me eat the candles on a birthday cake at the party."

"You can do that?" asked Dr. Tumbleweed.

"Only when it's obvious," said Trashscarf. "I'm too weak to do real magic on purpose, but my mind is still set up to do it on accident. Like, I can't just pull a rabbit out of my hat, but if I put on a hat, a rabbit will fall out."

"I understand the metaphor," said Dr. Tumbleweed, "but what is the magic?"

"The mind," said Trashscarf. "It's all in the mind. It's real, but it can't do anything unless you believe it can. That's why you're so important. You must tell everyone that there is another way, that they can change the future, not just let it happen to them. I'll help you get out of here, then I'll go find your machine, and then I'll get you back to it so you can set it up again and undo this."

"But I didn't do anything," said Dr. Tumbleweed.

"You did," said Trashscarf, "you just don't realize it. You're the seed-- and if you plant the seed, it'll take root, and grow out of control."

"I still don't understand," said Dr. Tumbleweed.

"You already did a lot for me, by being you," said Trashscarf.

"But what did I do?" asked Dr. Tumbleweed.

"You did my job for me," said Trashscarf, "you cared about people. And you cared about the truth. That's what makes you different."

"I don't understand," said Dr. Tumbleweed, "and that's not just my eyes, they're all different colors. Maybe I'm going crazy."

"No," said Trashscarf, "You're not going crazy. You're becoming sane. It's a moment of clarity, where the scales fall away and you see the world as it really is. Hold on to it. Hold on tight."

"I don't understand," repeated Dr. Tumbleweed.

"You will," said Trashscarf. 

Just then the door handle moved, and Trashscarf vaulted off the bed and got behind it as it opened, and flipped a fold of his scarf over his head, sat down against the wall, and stuck his hand out hopefully. 

The door opened, not quite hitting him, and a sturdy nurse walked in, looking around suspiciously, then at Dr. Tumbleweed. 

"Are you all right, David?" she asked, with a politeness that was undercut with worry, like filling a donut with pickled beets instead of delicious jelly. "You seem very agitated. Was someone in here? Security said there was a woman in a business suit--"

"I--" Dr. Tumbleweed stammered, as the nurse looked around and her gaze landed on Trashscarf, still in his otherworldly garb, sitting against the wall with his scarf on his head and his palm out-- and slid right on past him without stopping. 

"Ah, I see you've finally eaten your supper," she said then, noticing the empty tray on the bed, and picked it up briskly. "That's good. All right, well, try to get some rest." She left again, closing the door behind her, and Trashscarf stood back up and pulled his scarf down.

 "Was that magic?" Dr. Tumbleweed asked, in a whisper, in case the nurse was lurking outside. Trashscarf gave a quick shake of his head. 

"Not exactly," he whispered back. "Some worlds, it's very easy to be invisible if you're a homeless person asking for help." He gave a sad smile that then brightened. "I also don't show up on camera, except as a cryptic sort of shadowy blur that might be almost anything. Not yet anyway."

Before Dr. Tumbleweed could ask what he meant by that, the door opened again, and this time, it was the Dean; she was now wearing a professional labcoat over her business suit and had that air of academic superiority that defied anyone to question her presence. She also had a couple more coats over her arm, and tossed one to Trashscarf and one to Dr. Tumbleweed as she moved to unlock his cuffs with the key she'd stolen.

"We must be quick," she said, "I have a department head meeting across campus in half an hour and I don't want to be late."

"Why are you helping us?" asked Dr. Tumbleweed.

"I'm not," said Mrs. Marmalade, "I am helping you. Don't you see the difference? Helping you is the only way I can ever make a difference in this wretched place."

As she unlocked the cuffs, Dr. Tumbleweed struggled out of the bed. Mrs. Marmalade offered him a hand, and he took it, gratefully."Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome, idiot," she said. "Now for pity's sake don't make a mess of yourselves, I really am running late."

She opened the door, and gestured for Trashscarf and Dr. Tumbleweed to go first.Trashscarf threw the labcoat on over his entire ensemble, scarf and all, did up the buttons briskly, and ran his hands quickly through his curls, then smoothed down the coat as well. Dean Marmalade was helping Dr. Tumbleweed with his buttons-- he was still a bit loopy from the drugs they'd been giving him, and having some trouble with his fine motor control. 

When she looked up, she almost did a double-take; instead of a random hobo there was a perfectly legitimate-looking medical professional there, with a well-tailored labcoat and a professional demeanor and hair neatly combed except for one rogue curl that had escaped onto his forehead. 

He was wearing hornrim glasses and had a rather strange tie around his neck instead of a scarf, but he didn't exactly look like a real doctor-- more like a doctor you'd see on a TV show, or in a commercial. He even had an identity badge, with a blurry photograph and the name "Dr. T. Scarf." He was actually rather handsome, but Jane quickly squashed that thought. Trashscarf caught her look, though, and quickly looked down at himself as well.

 "Oops," he muttered. "Well, nothing for it now-- let's go!"

They hastened out of the room and had made it partway down the hall before the alarms started. "Oh, damn," said Mrs. Marmalade. "Who's going to explain all of this to the Director? Or the Board of Directors?"

"I'm thinking," said Trashscarf, "that you ladies can put your heads together and make something up, since you're both so good at it."

"Wait, you're not coming?" said Dr. Tumbleweed.

"I've got to find that machine!" said Trashscarf. "There's no time to explain-- the whole multiverse is going to be destroyed! You'll understand it later." 

"I'm pretty sure we won't," said Mrs. Marmalade, "but do what you have to do. If you're gone when we get back, don't worry-- we'll have a story for you, too."

Trashscarf nodded. "That's the spirit," he said. He turned to Dr. Tumbleweed, held out his hand, and Dr. Tumbleweed shook it firmly. 

"If you can get my machine back to me, I'm sure I can make it work, if you can help, and it'll help you too," said Tumbleweed, and Trashscarf smiled, but it was a bit sad.

 "We'll hope, hmm? Now then, take care of yourself, and drink lots of fluids, and get lots of rest, and we'll schedule a follow-up later." He looked up at Jane, and his eyes behind the glasses had lost their feverish sparkle. "Thank you for your help and cooperation, Dean Marmalade. Pleasure working with you." He gave her unprotesting hand a firm shake as well, and then made a shooing gesture at them. 

"Don't worry, we'll take care of everything," said Mrs. Marmalade. "Don't worry."

Trashscarf, who had been trying to catch their eyes, finally succeeded, and gestured at the door, and they hurried through it.

"You're going to have to explain that to me," said Mrs. Marmalade, as they made it out of the building and hurried down the street.

"You'll see," said Dr. Tumbleweed, "or maybe you won't." He took a deep breath, and then exhaled, nodding to himself. He looked pretty good, despite not having slept in days, despite being in the middle of the street looking like he'd just escaped from a lunatic asylum. 

"I've had an epiphany," he said.

"So I see," said Mrs. Marmalade.

"I think I even know why it happened," Tumbleweed continued. "It all makes sense now. It all makes sense!"

"I'm glad," said Mrs. Marmalade, though she wasn't entirely sure it did make sense.

"I've had a revelation about the nature of the universe," he said. "And the nature of reality. I know for a fact that it's a simulation, and I know for a fact that it's a simulation of a system that exists outside of itself."

"What?" said Mrs. Marmalade, surprised. 

"I have to get back to my lab," said Tumbleweed. "I need to write a paper-- a paper describing the nature of this, but I need my computer, I need to get it back, and if I can do that, I can work out the puzzle and explain it all."

"I don't even know if I can trust you anymore," said Mrs. Marmalade, "but I believe you. I believe that you believe in what you're saying."

"Well, I'm glad someone does," said Tumbleweed.

"I'm going to get you a computer, or a tablet, or something," said Mrs. Marmalade. "I'm coming with you and I'm going to help you write your paper." She thought for a moment, and then quickly added: "That is, if you don't mind. It could all be nonsense, but if you have an epiphany, and if you think it's true, I'm going to help you figure it out."

Meanwhile, Trashscarf ran back to the lab. The police were on their way already, and he was a bit worried-- he had a lot to do.At the door, he took a moment, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, they had cleared, and he knew exactly what he was doing.

 He reached into his pocket and took out the key card he had stolen from the dean. He waved it in front of the reader by the door and the lock opened, and he pressed down the handle and pushed the door open.The lights automatically came on.He hurried to the glass door of the server room, and swiped the card again. There was a click, and the door unlocked, and he pushed it open. He hurried to the second glass door, and that was unlocked as well, and he pushed it open as well. 

Within, Dr. Tumbleweed's machine was sitting there lost and forlorn, brass and crystal and wires and tubes and a little screen from an old TRS-80. It was surrounded by much more serious looking machines, white and tall and stocky and blocky and blinking with LEDs. It looked a little bit like a Renfaire performer who'd taken a wrong turn and ended up in a KKK rave, and he felt a pang of sympathy for it that he wouldn't let himself feel for himself. He adjusted his glasses, and set about unplugging all the various dongles and dangles that were clipped into it from the surrounding computational monoliths. 

After a moment, he had all of them unplugged, and grabbed the machine, lifting it and taking it with him. He headed back out of the room, locking it behind him again. When he got out into the hallway, he found that there were police on the way-- a few people in SWAT gear had pulled up in a few armored vans and were heading for the door. 

"Oh, good," he said, "they're on time!" He had been worried that they'd be too late. The SWAT team burst into the room, and he held up his hands.

"Dr. T. Scarf, Psychologist, Ph.D. Emeritus," he said, calmly. He looked at the SWAT team, shrugged his shoulders, and said, "It's a long story. I am a retired psychologist who has-- through a fluke of circumstance-- become a world-class epidemiologist. The building is infected with a dangerous virus, and I'm here to help."

"Sir, we're just doing our job, and we're going to--" the SWAT team leader began, but Trashscarf cut him off.

"I know, I know," he said. "You're going to detain and quarantine me, and take me back to the NOCA complex." There was a pause.

"Actually, sir," said the SWAT team leader. "I think we're supposed to arrest you, but it sounds like we could use your help."

"Thank you," said Trashscarf. He turned to the door, and back to the SWAT team. "I'll meet you out front."

"Sir?" said the SWAT team leader. 

"I've got to get back to my lab at the university," said Trashscarf. "The building is infected and I've got to help find a cure. I need to see if that machine can help me."

"It looks like a piece of junk," said the SWAT team leader.

"It's not a piece of junk, it's an antique, but it's a quantum computer, and quantum computers are the future," said Trashscarf. "They're the future, and I need to get it.

"Whoa, whoa," said the SWAT team leader. "That's not how we do things." He turned to one of his men, and said, "Cuff him," and the man put handcuffs on him and led him out.

"But it's important," said Trashscarf, and he sighed. "It's important, and I can't leave here without it."

"Oh, you're not leaving," said a new voice, low with menace. "Not with that, not with anything. Not this time, Trashscarf."

The speaker was a tall, thin man, dressed in a dark blue suit, with a sharp face and a sharp nose and a thin lipless mouth. His thinning hair had been slicked back and he wore a long coat, even in the heat. He looked like a villain, and he looked dangerous.

"You won't find anything in there," said Trashscarf. "Nothing in there will tell you where I've been or how I've been getting in. I've been doing a lot of work."

"Funny thing, Trashscarf," said the man. "You've been getting in using our system, using our servers. That's going to stop."

"Who are you?" said Trashscarf, suddenly angry.

"I run the NOCA," said the man. 

"That doesn't tell me who, or even actually what," retorted Trashscarf. "What does NOCA stand for, anyway?"

"The NOCA is the National Occult Crimes Agency," said the man. "We're the agency that investigates and suppresses occult crimes, and you've been interfering with our investigations.

""Interfering?" said Trashscarf. "I've been solving your cases for you."

"You've been solving crimes that we haven't even known about," said the man. "We don't have the resources or the manpower to investigate every crime that happens in this city. We don't even know about them all, not even close. Our job is to investigate cases that we hear about from reliable sources."

"And you've never heard about that?" asked Trashscarf, pointing over his shoulder.

"There hasn't been anything about that on the news," said the man. He looked at the SWAT team leader, and said, "Walk him out to the van, and put him in with the other one."

The SWAT team leader hesitated, and said, "But sir--"

"Do it," said the man.

"But sir," said the SWAT team leader. "We don't even have a protocol for how to deal with this kind of thing. What do we do with-- whatever he is?"

"We'll deal with that when we get to it," said the man. "For now, just put him in the van. And call the lab and check, see if that machine is still there."

"You can't just throw me in a van," said Trashscarf.

"We're not throwing you in a van," said the man. "We're taking you to a secure facility where you'll be safe."

"I don't feel safe," said Trashscarf. "I feel like you're going to lock me up in a room and leave me there, forever."

"Oh no," said the man, with a smile like a cobra. "Not forever. Just for long enough. Long enough for this world's reality to tear you to shreds. Then we'll turn you loose, and you can wander around for a few months as the crazy homeless guy you're usually only pretending to be, until you freeze to death or OD or get hit by a bus or whatever. No more tricks, no more magic, no more miraculous escapes. This is the end of the line for you, Waywalker."

"How do you even know who I am?" Trashscarf demanded, trying to keep himself annoyed enough to not descend into quivering terror. It was working. He felt more confident now that he had a reason to be angry. "Who the hell are you?"

"My name is Agent Mothman," said the man. 

"I--""Mothman?" said Trashscarf. "Like the bird?"

"This isn't the time for jokes," said Agent Mothman.

"Yeah, it is," said Trashscarf. "That's what this is. This is exactly the time for jokes."

"Sir, can we just go?" said the SWAT team leader, looking at Agent Mothman nervously. "We've got to get back to the base. We've got a lot of work to do. We've got to figure out how this whole thing is going to work."

"Right," said Agent Mothman, and he turned and left.

The SWAT team leader looked at Trashscarf and said, "I don't know what you did to piss that guy off, but you're in deep shit."

"Nobody knows how it happened," said Trashscarf. "I was just sitting in my lab, and I had a choice to make between two pieces of equipment, and I picked one, and--" he spread his hands, "here I am. I'm the Waywalker, but I'm not supposed to be. I'm supposed to be in a lab, and I'm supposed to be working on this, this project, and all of this is--" his voice broke, and he took a deep breath, "This is all a mistake."

"I don't know what you're talking about, but we've got to go," said the SWAT team leader, who was obviously getting very uncomfortable with the subject. "We've got to get back to the base, and figure out how to deal with all of this."

"Yeah," said Trashscarf. "Yeah, let's go."

"What's in the bag?" asked the SWAT team leader.

"Personal effects," said Trashscarf. "Basically everything I own."

"You can get it later," said the SWAT team leader.

"No," said Trashscarf. "No, you don't understand. This is important. This is the most important thing I've got, and I don't want to lose it."

"We'll take it in with you," said the SWAT leader. "Don't you worry. It'll be safe."

He wrested the bag away from Trashscarf and, after cuffing his legs as well, opened the back of the van and shoved Trashscarf into it, and slamming the door behind.

Trashscarf staggered in the sudden dimness, and fell over onto a hard metal bench as the van started to move. "Nnnf," he said to himself, pushing himself upright, and then noticed that he wasn't alone in the stainless steel interior of the holding van.

 Across from him, on another hard bench, was a young man. He was pale, gaunt, and pale, with stringy straight dark hair, and he was dressed all in black, including a long black coat that was far too big for him. He looked all in, and he was staring dully at the far wall.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you," said the young man in a flat voice. "I'm not going to hurt anyone. I'm just going to take over the world."

Trashscarf looked at the young man and said, "Sorry?"

"I'm going to take over the world," said the young man. "I've been planning it for months. And now I'm going to."

"What?" said Trashscarf. "Are you a supervillain or something?"

"I don't really think of it as a political statement," said the young man, "but if you think it's really important, I guess I could call myself a supervillain. It sounds much cooler than 'evil genius' or 'ruthless mad scientist,' anyway."

"Right," said Trashscarf. "I'm sure taking over the world counts as political statement in some circles." He tried to keep his voice calm, but he was feeling increasingly alarmed.

"To be fair," said the young man, "I don't intend to take over the whole world. Just, you know, Planet Earth."

"There is no Planet Earth," said Trashscarf. "There's just Earth. I don't know why everyone keeps making that mistake. We're all liv--" he stopped, feeling immediately stupid. He closed his mouth, but it was too late.

"That's what I was thinking," said the young man, nodding. "I was thinking that I'd take over the whole planet, and then I'd be done. I'd lay back and enjoy my power, and just look at the sky and think, 'It's all mine.' I could get a new name. Something more--" he paused, considering, and went with, "something more imposing. Like Emperor Kong-Norton. Or maybe Emperor Slush-Bucket."

"You're crazy," said Trashscarf. It wasn't a question.

"I used to think that," said the young man. "But I'm not crazy. I'm just better than you. That's why I can do what I can do."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" said Trashscarf.

"I'm a magician," said the young man, "and I'm well-versed in the school of stage magic. I know tricks, and I know how to make things seem impossible. You see, I've been preparing for this for a long time. When I was a small child, I started to realize that I was smarter than everyone around me. I was smarter than my teachers, I was smarter than my parents, I was smarter than all of my friends. I was smarter than everyone, and I couldn't stand it. I felt like I was going crazy, because I was smarter than everyone, and yet I was still just an ordinary boy. I thought I'd go mad. I thought that if I stayed in my own world, I'd go mad.

 So I read about other worlds. I read about parallel worlds, and infinite universes, and I realized that there must be worlds out there, where I was smarter than everyone. Worlds where I was a god. Worlds where I was infinite. Worlds where I did the impossible. Worlds where I owned everything, and even the sky was mine. And those worlds were out there, and they were infinite. They were out there, and they were waiting for me."

"That's a very specific thing to believe in," said Trashscarf.

"So was gravity, a hundred years ago," said the young man. "So was magic. A hundred years later, magic isn't just possible, it's commonplace. Magic is more like gravity now--"

"Except there's no such thing as magic," said Trashscarf.

"I know, I'm just using an analogy," said the young man. "It's like gravity--"

"Forget it," said Trashscarf. "Whatever."

"And so I knew that if I could just tear a hole in the world, and let everything else in, all the other worlds, then I could get out of my own world, and find those other worlds, and finally be infinite. I'd be the smartest person in all the worlds. And so I figured out how to do it. I didn't have the power to do it, not yet. But I figured out the steps I'd have to take to get there. I figured out the spells, the rituals, the steps that I'd have to take. And it worked. It worked. I could feel it. And that's when I realized that I didn't have to tear open a hole in the world. I realized that I could just open a portal, to a place where I already was. I was already infinite. I was already above everything. I was already a god. I could just open a portal, and step through."

"You're not thinking straight," said Trashscarf, trying to keep his voice calm. "That's probably a defence mechanism. That's probably something that's protecting you from what you did. You're not an evil magician. You're not a god. You're a guy who's in way over his head. You're a guy who's made a huge mistake and you're not thinking straight."

"What do you think you even know about it?" sneered the young man. Trashscarf pushed his glasses back up on his nose.

"Because, young man whose name I don't even know," he sighed, "I am a liscenced clinical psychologist. I studied at University of California Santa Cruz and I obtained my doctorate and I've been working in this field for fifteen years. I've seen a lot of delusions in my day and yours is absolutely textbook. Delusions of grandeur and classic narcissism, and probably a touch of psychopathy as well. You are a young man in dire need of medical help, not a god, and magic does not exist." 

He folded his arms as best he could in handcuffs, and looked stern. Then he blinked, and pinched the bridge of his nose, and pulled the glasses off and threw them into a corner of the van. The young man's look went from sullen to startled.

 "I... think I'm confused," Trashscarf said. "I know that I'm a scientist doing proper science things but... I don't actually know what that is. I know magic doesn't exist, but..." He shook his head. "Why does that thought make me scared and sad and I feel like I'm falling into a big black pit? Am I going crazy?"

"Nope," said the young man. "You're going sane. You've got to fight it, dude. By the way, my name's Eric. What's yours?" He gave Trashscarf a slack sort of handshake, and an unsettling, creepy feeling ran up Trashscarf's arm.

"My name is Doctor Trashscarf," said Trashscarf, automatically. Then he stopped. "Wait, what?"

"This is something in your mind, dude," said Eric. "This is something that's happening inside your head."

"No, I've always been Doctor Trashscarf," said Trashscarf. He tried to think back. He tried to remember anything before the day he woke up in the lab. He tried to remember anything before he was Doctor Trashscarf. He could think back, but it was all blank. He had always been Doctor Trashscarf. He had always been Doctor Trashscarf, and Doctor Trashscarf was a respected scientist, and it had always been that way, and hadn't that always been true?

He tried to compose himself as the creepy feeling turning into something powerful upwelling somewhere-- he wasn't sure if he was going to pass out, throw up, or sneeze, and reflexively straightened his tie-- and the smooth silk turned to rough knots of infinite fractal complexity under his fingertips, and memory and self came flooding back, and he sneezed hugely as Eric leaned back hastily. 

And the labcoat burst apart into a thousand fluttering strands and Trashscarf found himself back in his travel garb with his tattered coat and his scarf tangling back around him.Eric jolted back so hard that he slammed his head into the wall of the van. 

"Holy shit. Holy shit, dude. What-- how the hell-- " He stared as the shreds of labcoat fluttered like confetti around them, and Trashscarf hastily scooped up a few of them and picked up the running end of his scarf. "That... was that magic?"

"Weren't you just trying to convince me magic was real?" Trashscarf asked, the sparkle in his eyes almost lighting up the back of the van. "Somehow you did, thank you, and pulled me out of that reality vortex."

"So-- wait-- but--" Eric stammered. "It... doesn't usually do that, it's just..." 

"Hunches, feelings, dreams, memories that you never made, things you hope are true but they don't make sense?" Trashscarf asked, in a cheerful conspiratorial whisper. "Well, good news-- magic is indeed real and you've got it in you, same as I do-- I don't think you're a god, though," he added apologetically. "I've met quite a few and to be honest, you seem far too intelligent to be one. You're probably a wizard though."

"I never got an owl with a letter," Eric snapped, but there was a grin of hope behind it, and Trashscarf mirrored it. 

"Well, now you've got something much better. Me."

"Dude," Eric's eyes were wide. "Who are you?"

"Lad, if I knew, if I remembered, I'd probably even tell you, I'm that grateful," said Trashscarf warmly. "You've helped me, and I'm going to help you. We're both going to get out of here, and get Dr. Tumbleweed's machine back, and get back to his lab, and we're going to do something."

"Something what?"

"Something awesome, dude," said Trashscarf confidently. "And we start by getting out of here. Go on."

 He nodded to Eric encouragingly. "What?"

"Use your magic, Eric. I barely have enough left to keep myself together at this point, but you were born here-- even if you should have been born somewhere else. You've got power. Use it."

He could feel it in Eric, the same thing that he had always had, the same sense of infinite possibility and power. He could feel it roaring just below the surface, and Eric had a talent for tapping into it, even if he hadn't quite learned how to do it yet.

"The world's not infinite," he said doubtfully.

"It is when you're infinite," said Trashscarf confidently. "Now, go. Go. Go." He stared at Eric, who stared back for a moment, biting his lip.

"Well, shit," Eric said, and he closed his eyes.

"Now," said Trashscarf, and just at that moment, the van jerked to a sudden stop, throwing Trashscarf off balance and slamming Eric into the side of the van, and making him hiss slightly with pain, and when he looked up, his eyes were glowing in the darkness of the van.

 Not sparkly, like Trashscarf's, but a genuine burning refulgency that made Trashscarf throw himself down on the floor for cover, and just in time, as with a blast of light, the van exploded gently outwards-- like a flower blooming in stop motion, bits of metal and cloth and engine parts all going every which way, but with a thunderclap instead of a bang.

 The driver and the guard were sent tumbling away unharmed, and Trashscarf and Eric landed with a bump on the shattered chassis as the tires bounced away. Trashscarf lunged forward and grabbed the professional-looking leather satchel he'd been carrying as Dr. Trashscarf, and as he grasped it, it belled out like a sail into the comforting, weatherworn shape of his backpack, with the clink of Dr. Tumbleweed's machine still safe inside it.

"What the hell is this? Who the hell is this? Where the hell did the other guy--" a confused, angry voice started yelling, but then cut off as the person stepped into the van and saw the glowing eyes. "Oh. Oh, fuck. What the hell?"

"Look!" said Eric, in a tone of forced joviality and Trashscarf, peering over the edge of the van, made a little note to himself that Eric was definitely a wizard and not a god. "It's you!"

"This isn't a time to be funny," said the officer, voice suddenly no-nonsense, and reached for his gun. "I'm taking you guys in."

"Hey, no, no, don't do that," said Eric, and Trashscarf stared at him in shock, wondering what on earth the boy was playing at. "Look, let me give you some advice. Don't get involved with--"

"Don't tell me my job," said the man, hand shaking, and pointed the gun. "Get out. Now."

"Wait, wait, I was joking, look, I'm sorry, I--" Eric said, and Trashscarf, well aware that they were running out of time and that Eric was playing with fire, dived out of the van, seized Eric's shoulder and yanked.

"Run," said Trashscarf, and Eric led the way as they scrambled away from the van, and the officer just yelled after them, "Hey, you! You! No running! Stop!"

"So that's how it is, huh?" Trashscarf hissed. "Well, well, don't worry-- I've got a few tricks up my sleeve." 

He grabbed randomly at his scarf, and pulled out the first item that came to his fingers-- and passed it to Eric without even looking at it, as they ran with the fleetness of foot that teenage boys and crazy hobos alike can apply in particular circumstances which include running away from authority figures. 

"Here you go, Eric-- what can you make of this?" 

"What is it?" panted Eric, trying to focus on the object in his hands while mid-gallop.

"It doesn't matter what it is! What do YOU make of it?!" shouted Trashscarf back, as the wailing of sirens closed in on them.

"I... can't give you an answer yet!" panted Eric. "It's some sort of rubber thing?"

"Well, okay, I suppose it'll have to do," said Trashscarf, and he reached out to grab Eric's hand and they changed their direction, darting through the alleys of the city, dodging past the stacks of garbage that seemed to have multiplied in the past hour and which he was certain hadn't been there before.

"Sorry, I'm having to borrow your magic to use mine, since you're having a hard time with this," panted Trashscarf. "But we're in a city, a great city no less. There's no better place for an urban druid to run away. Hold on, do NOT let go of my hand unless you've got something better!" 

Trash rained out of the walls of the alley behind them, right at their heels, and a huge dumpster that hadn't been there before fell over with a mighty crash, spilling its odiferous contents everywhere. The police car's sirens were underlined by the shrieking of their breaks as they crashed into the barriers that buried them in soft comforting rubbish. 

"Don't fall!" shouted Eric desperately, grabbing onto him as he stumbled.

"Hey, don't pull my scarf!" yelled Trashscarf, almost losing his balance as Eric yanked on his scarf, trying to pull him back upright. "Watch the scarf, Eric!"

"Sorry!" said Eric, and once again, Trashscarf noted in the back of his head that he was a wizard and not a god, because if he had been a god, he would have clung to the item in his hand and he would have paid attention to what he was doing. Also he probably wouldn't have apologized.

They darted through the streets in a mad dash, weaving between the puddles and the giant smelly trash cans of the city and the piles of junk and the sudden, inexplicable appearance of trees and bushes that had not been there before-- all because Trashscarf had reached out and, in a moment of inspiration, grabbed the very first thing his fingers had touched. He had no idea what it was, but he was certain it would come in handy, and from the way that Eric was clutching it to his chest with a look of delighted amusement, he was sure that Eric knew what it was.

"I've got it!" shouted Eric. 

"Great! Do it!" Trashscarf said encouragingly, and let go of the boy's wrist quickly. "But whatever it is, do it fast! Don't think about it, just DO it!"

Trashscarf saw Eric falter for a moment, and then the boy grinned, and he could feel the power surging around them and he closed his eyes, in spite of the fact that they were still running, and then he heard a splat, as if someone had dropped a load of wet laundry on a metal grate----and when he opened his eyes again, they were standing on a street corner, with people hurrying past in every direction and no sign of anyone who wanted to arrest them.

"Yeah, I don't understand it either," said Eric, staring down at the wet t-shirt that he was wearing, and which he was certain he had not been wearing before. "But we're alive."

"And we've got the machine," said Trashscarf confidently, patting his backpack and trying to not think about the slightly crunchy feeling beneath the leather. "Now we've just got to get back to Dr. Tumbleweed, at the University of New York."

"Uh, great. Now how do we do that?" asked Eric, and the two young men looked at one another for a moment and then glanced back over their shoulders, to the land of freedom and the land of pestilence and the land of mystery that had swallowed them up like a wave and then spat them out, grinning and wet.

"We walk," said Trashscarf, and he smiled as he took a step forward into a world of new adventure.