Flat Top's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Flat Top steps between the pines, his knee-length hair dragging through wet needles. His juju eyeballs scan the wood for the door between waking and dreaming. Every shimmer could be it. Every shimmer could be nothing. He stops at a drifting patch of fog. It glows soft and layered, exactly like the threshold should look. His heart kicks. He reaches out. His hand passes through cold, ordinary mist. "Right," he mutters. "Not you either." He wipes his palm on his coat and keeps walking. The wood is full of fakes. He has chased shimmers for years now, and his hair is the receipt. Then he sees it. Deeper in the trees stands a tall wooden frame, its grain swirling with impossible color, birch edges smooth as bone. No mist. No trick. The wood itself looks awake. Flat Top stops breathing. He finally knows what the threshold looks like — and now he has to find the one that opens.