You go to your airline's main desk and ask to speak to a TSA agent.


The uniformed attendant, who isn't much older than you but looks like she has a ton more responsibility, smiles briskly and pulls something up on her computer. "Yes, Miss Conner--we were wondering if you'd stop by. Follow me."


She leads you into what looks like a small conference room. Four leather chairs are arranged around a shiny wooden table. At one end of the room is a Keurig machine, a small fridge, and a bowl of apples. "Would you like something to drink while you wait?" she asks. "The agent should be in here shortly, and he'll explain everything."


You meant to ask her some questions, but the kindness in her voice--as well as the promise that everything is finally going to start making sense--almost brings you to tears. You accept a bottle of water and sit quietly.


The man who comes in is holding a manila file folder. He has no face.


Well, he has eyes, a nose, and a mouth, but they have no distinguishing features. He's like a mannequin, except there's nothing mechanical about his movements. He's clearly real, just blank.


"Hello, Ms. Conner."


Fear is rising through your throat like smoke.  This is a trap--this is just what the killer wanted.


He smiles comfortingly. "Oh, no, Ms. Conner--I'm not here to kill you. That's not my job. Shall I leave the door open? You may leave whenever you like." He props it open and takes the seat opposite you, leaving you closer to the exit. A flat laugh. "Of course, leaving would mean starting the running part, which you may not be ready to do. I'm not sure I blame you there!"


It's the same tone you use with your boyfriend's parents on Skype. Jovial, polite. A voice for small talk.


"Anyway, while you're here, I'm supposed to go over the rules with you." He opens the folder. "Rules are optional…" he reads, almost to himself. "We went over that. Okay, here we are. 'If you are being briefed, you have been exceedingly stubborn in contacting the authorities. Stubbornness has both benefits and drawbacks, which we will discuss at the end.


"The following are the rules: you will run. They will try to catch you. You can run, hide, or fight. If they catch you, if they overpower you, you will die.


"But you will not ask for help from people of higher authority than yourself. If you continue to fail to accept the situation, you will lose, and losing this game will not be pleasant. You are safe when you cross the threshold of 333 Madison Avenue."


He looks at you. "Do you need any part of that repeated?" he asks politely. "Or some coffee?"


"But why is this happening? What's the point?"


He shrugs, eyes flitting over the documents. "I don't see a point."


Right. Let's try another tack. "What do I have that they want?"


He reads from the paper again. "'You can run, hide, or fight.'"


Not helpful. "Can I see what else is in the folder?"


"Of course."


He slides it across the table. On top is the paper he just read, typed in ordinary Times New Roman.


Behind that is another sheet with what appears to be a dossier on you--your full name, birthdate, social security number, height, weight, hair and eye color, GPA, hometown, high school, and a short medical and dental history. The GPA is current as of the exams you just finished taking.


Personal life, it says, like on Wikipedia.


Conner is of Irish, Scottish, and American Indian descent. She enjoys photography, reading, and hiking. She is affiliated with no particular religion. Her flaws include an irregular flossing routine and passivity.


That's it.


"This is crazy." These aren't really the right words, because actually these papers are boring--pointedly boring, like they've been created to mock you.


You ask more questions--why you, why the teeth, how did they get this--but Faceless guy just gives you more polite non-answers.


Suddenly something rather obvious strikes you. You've been dealing with this like it's an airport emergency, but it's bigger than that. You have your phone, and it's got plenty of charge. Why not call the police?

You run.

You run for a few hundred feet, then dart into a gift shop. You browse behind a high shelf, waiting to see if anyone (or anything) is following you. Nothing looks suspicious, and no one seems to be paying you any particular attention.


 

You buy a dark blue Atlanta Braves sweatshirt and pull it over the cashmere J Crew sweater you got from the thrift shop in order to impress your boyfriend's parents. Then it's too hot, so you stuff it into your bag--your bright red bag. After checking your surroundings, you limp over and find a tote bag that says Hotlanta! And buy it (the clerk is, by now, looking at you like you're a freak). You step behind the shelf and transfer everything in your large purse into the tote bag.


 

Suddenly you see them. Two. They're about half your height, with green scales and large yellow teeth. They walk on two feet like a person, but they move like lizards. They look like the bad buys in a fairy tale. Goblins, or something. 


 

And no one notices.


 

People move around them automatically, like they do for plants or luggage, but their eyes never focus on them.


 

The goblins' eyes are small, soulless, but peering everywhere. Their little nostrils--their snouts are shaped like an alligator's, but shorter--are twitching. They're sniffing for you.


 

You step back, trying to move gradually in case fast movement kicks your scent into the air. Sweat pricks your underarms--a result, no doubt, of both your nervousness and the extra layer you used to have on.


 

But when you peek again, they've passed by.


 

Maybe the smartest thing would be to keep them in front of you. After all, your gate is all the way on the other side of the airport, and you only have four hours to get there. The only way out of this nightmare is to get on that plane to New York.


 

You wait for them to get about fifty feet ahead, peek out of the store, and, seeing nothing amiss, begin following them. You begin walking toward the center of the airport. Along the way, you throw away the purse and sweater, and stop in the bathroom and cover yourself with sickly-sweet strawberry soap--anything to hide your natural scent.After a few minutes, you reach an escalator, which will take you down to the tram area, where you will get a ride to your terminal.


 

As you near the bottom, suddenly there is a slap-slapping on the marble floor, like someone in thin wet socks.


 

You turn. There are creatures behind you, weaving around the people at the top of the escalator.


 

You hurry down the escalator. The tram to Gate C has arrived. Should you try to catch it, hoping the doors will close before they can follow you (or if they do, that you can hop out quickly) or turn and fight?

You run for the Tram

You leap onto the tram just as the doors close.  


 

You aren't stupid--no way is this hell over with. But at least you're safe for now.


 

The tram slows at B Gate. Will any of them get on? You edge near the doors, ready to leap out, but none do, and the tram ambles onward.


 

A guy about your age, tall and skinny with a t-shirt advertising a Dropkick Murphys show from eight years ago gets on. He notices you.


 

Huh. Come to think of it, not many people have done that since you found the first postcard. You're no Megan Fox, but you are a reasonably attractive twenty-year-old girl, and you're used to a moderate amount of male perusal while in public. And yet, for the most part, people's eyes have been sliding past you all day. Only airport employees have acknowledged your existence. Weird.


 

And yet this guy sees you.


 

That's probably not good.


 

You edge a little closer to the doors. What if he's one of them? A normal college-age boy outside, a goblin inside? Maybe that's the next level of this--at first the monsters are easy to spot, and then they're in the form of fairly cute guys.


 

He walks up to you. "Hi."


 

This close he looks familiar. Familiar like a human I've seen before, or familiar like a goblin?


 

"I think we went to camp together."


 

His eyes are a yellow-striped green--what color were theirs? You can't remember. You were too panicked to notice.


 

"Guess not," he says. You must look pretty freaked out, because he starts backing away.


 

And then his face clicks into place. Triple R Ranch. Summer before fourth grade. His name is Dmitri, and the reason you still know that is that he was almost your first kiss. (Instead it was this loser named Jason in sixth grade. He told everyone you tasted like bubble gum--which doesn't seem that bad, but somehow he made it sound absolutely disgusting. What a prick.)


 

"Wait," you say. "Dmitri, right?"


 

"Yeah. You're Claire."


 

"Clara, actually. That's my real name." You like Claire better, but it was too hard to keep telling everyone to call you Claire. They kept forgetting, and finally you just gave up and went with it.


 

He asks where you're going, and you tell him. He says he's going to Philadelphia to spend Christmas with his dad--he's headed to the same terminal you are.


 

His eyes move over you, but not in a flirtatious way. "Are you okay?"


 

You look down. You are sweating profusely. "It's been...a stressful trip," you finish lamely.


 

"How so?"


 

He seems to know there's a deeper meaning--which isn't itself strange, Dmitri has always been able to read people pretty well--but you can't shake the feeling that running into him is a little too coincidental. Should you trust him enough to tell him you're being stalked, or just politely brush him off?