"Some of brick,
some of bone,
some of mortar,
some of stone.
In the crack,
and through the wheel,
run away,
or be a meal?"

– Written on asylum bathroom mirror

"Except for you, Mr. Cemtes. I'd like to speak with you privately, if I may." Dr. Z looked directly at Kyle, a mixed look of resignation and purpose written in his eyes.

Was this it? Was Zibowitz going to assign Kyle to assay the legend of Old Town, just like his journal asserted, claimed in whimsical fancy? Kyle fidgeted, glued to his chair by several tons of industrial adhesive, unsure of his next move. To confront his teacher directly, or work his wild theory into casual conversation? Yeah, Dr. Z, I just wanted to say, I already knew you were going to ask me about Old Town, and I've already been there. In fact, I've been there about three times now, and I found a diary of a crazy suicidal dame, and was attacked by a rotting rabbit carcass. Sure, why not. Looney? Unquestionably. Yeah, definitely better to work it in.

"Dr. Z... I uh, am I in trouble?" he spouted, uncertain. It was possible, after all, that he was about to be punished, and his journal still a fairy-tale.

Zibowitz looked shocked for a second, and hunched slightly in a deep, coughing chuckle that resembled a booming rock-slide. "No, nothing like that Kyle. In fact, I was greatly impressed by you today." He emphasized the last with a gentle nod, closing his tired eyes as he relaxed further into the dry, protesting oak.

Against all odds, this information—which would have undoubtedly mollified a skittish student—sent Kyle into a miniature frenzy. "Ah... well, can I go then? I'll keep up the good work, sir." Get out. Gotta get out. Not in trouble, got a gracious complement, now get the hell out.

"Kyle, would you call me James?" he asked, his fingers steepled and head cocked to the left, thinking of Kyle, and the poor boy's reluctance to stay. Was it time? Already time? "I feel like we've had this conversation before, you and I." He could tell by how Kyle paled at that revelation, that he was probably right. Pity, that. He nodded again, mostly to himself, seeking some way to escape the next few moments. But it was too early to hope for a heart-attack. "Please, stay. We need to talk about Old Town."

This wasn't going well for Kyle, not at all. Being in trouble, paddled, threatened, or sent into a starving pack of slavering wolves—all would have been preferable treatment. As it was, it made at least one decision easier: he didn't have to broach the subject after all. He fumbled at his bag, checking for Arin's diary, knowing he'd need it soon, but unwilling to reveal it just yet. It wasn't skepticism—things had gone too far for that—but Kyle was leery; none of this smelled right, like an eviscerated skunk in the hot desert. Kyle dropped his bag at his desk, and calmly approached Dr. Z, knowing somewhere, just how the conversation would conclude. Without the lies, anyone can predict the future.

"I'm tired, son," the venerable professor began. "I'm not certain how much you know about Old Town, but you've been there." He held up his right hand, to preempt any denial from Kyle. "And you don't remember. Not really. So tell me, what clue did you find." He leaned forward, earnest.

Kyle chewed his lip, partially angry at being upstaged. And why not? Sure, he didn't have to make an ass of himself by introducing the barely believable tale of his journal, but worse fates awaited the unwary. He'd been caught, with his figurative pants around his ankles, furiously pleasuring himself, or any other colorful metaphor; the important thing was that he'd lost control. Impossibly, Dr. Z, James, held all the cards and dangled an ace of spades hypnotically before Kyle, expecting him to regurgitate everything. Well, the old man could never claim he didn't ask for Kyle's ensuing diatribe.

"Well, I... read it. My journal says I was there. Says I went there more than twice. Says you sent me. Says a lot of things that can't possibly be true. Can they?" Kyle wasn't stopping for air. He was on a roll, and he could barely even control his breathing. He became a constant stream of consciousness, a deluge pressed into a wild firehose, unchecked by man or machine. "It's like a damn dream. Heck, I even wrote about my dreams! I've been in sewers, I've gone with Jason, I've been haunted by creeky old swings, and attacked by rabbit skeletons... at least my journal says so. What's in Old Town? What is it? I've written about it, dreamt about it, and listened to it, and it's chased me from one nightmare to the next. Why do you want me to go there?" Kyle's momentum would rival an entire parade of elephants pulling heavy German tanks. With each word, he grew more flustered, increasingly rosy about the cheeks, faster in elocution, harried by an unseen force. "Why!"

James sighed. "I don't know, Kyle. I've wanted you to go to Old Town for some time, now. I hoped, beyond anything, you could bring back a clue, explore and wonder as only a teenager can, just what secrets those old ruins held. But you're no archeologist, and I'm just an English teacher." He slapped his hands on the thick stack of paper helming his desk, tapping his fingers in a tuneless accusation. "But I didn't answer your question, did I?" Kyle nodded, a shallow acknowledgement Spizer would have mistaken for inattention. "You want to know why I asked you? I think you just answered that."

Indeed he had. Underneath all the bluster, doubts, and mystery, he knew. The fact he was here, now, cemented his position as paradoxically observant; the oblivious boy who knew too much. In that moment, a distinct road, complete with signs and detours, appeared within his mind. Everything he had to do, each person he had to confront, all perfectly detailed and documented, neatly packaged, because it all made sense.

But first things first. "Sir, I've had this all wrong, and I think you do too. What would you say if I could show you why?"

"Tell me more," James Zibowitz prompted, properly enticed, giving Kyle his full attention with a glint in his eye.