On the day his world began the young man came riding down the road on a blue-and-white striped hammock slung between the tall humps of a pair of very ugly animals.

He looked around, curiously. Alone on his strange conveyance, on a deserted road, he was dressed for a day at the beach, in blue shorts, a wide-brimmed hat and dark glasses. It was, however, night, and there was no beach in sight. And it was raining. Not just your average April shower, but a monsoon-sized downpour, limiting vision to a few yards.

To make matters worse, it was windy.

The wind blew back the brim of his hat, and the rain lashed his face. In his haste to pull the hat brim back down, he hit himself in the face with a book he had not realised he was holding.

He took off his glasses to look at the book. It was made from coarse paper, bound into covers of thin wood. On the pages were closely-spaced lines of runes, while on the cover was a single runic word. Frowning in concentration, he studied the markings with a total lack of any dawning comprehension.

Another skirl of wind and rain swept across. He stared as the raindrops appeared to consciously avoid landing on the book, jostling each other aside in their efforts to keep from touching it.

Without warning, his reverie was interrupted by a brilliant flash of lightning. He looked up, blinking away the blue after-image. He looked down again at the book, trying to reconcile the image the lightning had revealed with what he held in his hand. The book in no way resembled the one the lightning had shown him.

The animals raced around a small hill and came to an abrupt stop before the gates of a walled town. Two men, apparently guards, armed with short spears and with swords at their sides, stepped reluctantly from the shelter of the gate.

“Hold it right there!” one of them barked. “Who are you?”

The traveller looked confused.

“I-i-i-i-i-iamme,” he slurred, struggling to make his voice form words.

“I know you’re you, but what’s your name?”

In the short time he could remember he had had no need for a name. He searched his memory for any names he may have had, but found nothing. In fact, he found nothing up until just before the lightning flash.

The young fellow looked even more confused. “I’m … I’m … Iamme,” he stammered. Surely that was obvious.

“OK, OK, Iamme,” the guard said sarcastically. “I got that, but what’s your business?”

Iamme’s confusion increased. The guard was asking him something else that he didn’t understand. As well as a name, was he expected to have business?

At that moment the second guard’s eyes focussed on the book. He turned pale and began to stammer, pointing at it as he backed away. The first guard followed the direction of the pointing finger. On seeing the book, he dropped his spear in the mud, turned, and ran for the gate and into town, leaving the gate wide open. The second guard was only a couple of paces behind him as they disappeared from sight down the narrow, twisting street.

-------------------

Iamme frowned, and practiced his name a few times. “Iamme, Iamme.” It seemed to fit, and as his voice became more accustomed to use, he became more confident and louder.

“Iamme!” he shouted.

With a loud clang, the iron-bound gate fell to the cobble-stoned road in front of it. It lay there, seeming as if it wanted to slither away, but was not quite sure how.

Iamme stepped through the unprotected gateway, and into town.

Our hapless hero awoke with no memory, this much is certain.

In the world of CamLom, it's hard to be certain of anything because everything is constantly changing. The sun is a different color every day, the air smells different every day, the water tastes different, the trees change shape and new species are born without proper evolutionary persuasion. Often times CamLom would change just to spite those who were certain of something. The only things that remain the same at all are the things that made no sense in the first place.

But even in this ever-changing neurotic world, it was easy to be certain that our hero lost his memory. It was certain even to him, though not much else was.

Having successfully remembered that he did at one point in time have a memory, our nameless friend looked about himself to see what other victories he could win over his amnesia. But, as he was an egotist even in his amnesiac state, he cheated by counting deductions as memories. He noticed that he was wearing clothes, so he "remembered" he wasn't a nudist. He also noticed he was carrying a book, so he "remembered" he could read. After a quick check, he "remembered" he was male.

And, after looking down, he also "remembered" that he was currently very, very high up in the air and was going very, very fast.

His first reaction was to panic. His next was to scream (after which he "remembered" he could speak.) When that proved futile, he desperately tried to get down or stop or do anything, but nothing seemed to work.

"Would you stop fidgeting?" asked a female voice coming from in front of him. "It's hard enough to fly with your weight as it is!"

"I'm sorry," said our confused hero. It was a moment later that he discovered where the voice was coming from. It was coming from the creature that was residing in front of, behind of, beneath of, and all around of him. He was riding this creature high through the altitudes of CamLom.

"So you're finally awake?" The creature was a remarkably large bird with pure white feathers, except in place of a head there was a naked human female torso. And what an exquisite torso it was. It was a torso with wonderfully attractive curves and an endowment many women would be envious of. Our hero would have been quite taken with this half-naked creature except it just happened to have the head of his mother.

"Mother?!" our hero exclaimed as he swiftly covered his eyes deeply into his hands. Silently he cursed his first memory being that of his mother's image.

"Is that what you see?" asked the creature. "No, I'm not. I'm a Froidde. I appear different to everybody -- I appear as whatever is needlessly disturbing or psychologically traumatizing to them. Quite an Oedipus complex you have, friend."

"What's my name?"

"Oh dear, I see you've lost your memory. I wonder how that could have happened."

"You mean you don't know?"

"How should I? My name is Rilda by the way, as if you cared."

"What's mine?"

"I don't know! And you are very tiresome. I'll allow you one more question, then you may shut up."

There was only one urgent question our hero felt needed to be asked, one that plagued him incessantly. "Could you please put on some clothes?"

"Yes. That I can do."

And downward they went.

Wake.

She watched the waves lap softly against the shore as the ship gradually shrank in size until it was just a dot on the horizon. The sea foam splashed against the golden sand, changing it to a dull brown and depositing various small shells in its wake. She picked one up and held it to her ear.

“Not that kind of wake! I mean wake UP!”

Surprised by the voice emanating from the seashell, she dropped it and startled awake. As she opened her eyes, the beach immediately disappeared and was replaced by a dark forest populated by gnarled trees with trunks so black they would make the deepest obsidian green with envy. Shafts of daylight weakly penetrated through the few places where the overhanging leaves allowed it to pass. It was just enough to tell that it was, indeed, daytime.

She rose from her makeshift bed of leaves and moss and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Shaking her head to get rid of the stray leaves that clung to her long black hair, she got to her feet and brushed off with her hands the remaining leaves and small twigs that stuck to her traveler’s outfit. It was an outfit more suited for a man; a simple ensemble of baggy shirt, breeches, light jacket and leather boots. But then, she’d never been an ordinary girl.

At least, she didn’t think she’d been. That was the thing about amnesia. It made things so hard to remember.

Nearby, a pack mule peered disinterestedly through the forest. Pack mules generally had only two expressions: detached boredom and sheer panic. And no one had ever seen a pack mule stick around in an emergency long enough to tell what the latter expression actually looked like.

She walked over to it and ran a hand along the mule’s neck, enjoying the feel of its short, rough hair between her fingers. Then she reached into the cloth sack draped on its back and pulled out its sole contents: a book with strange writing in it.

Opening it for the second time in as many days, she looked through it to see if it would trigger any memories. But she still could not decipher the runic symbols in which the book was written.

Her mouth twisted in a grimace of frustration as she made a mental note of her situation. The things she was sure of were as follows: that she’d woken up yesterday in the middle of this forest with no memory of who she was or how she’d gotten there, that her only company was a pack mule carrying a strange book, and that after a day of traveling she hadn’t encountered another living soul or figured out how to get out of this miserable forest.

But that wasn’t all she was certain of. There was one more thing. She knew that the handwriting in the book was hers. She couldn’t explain how she knew, or why she couldn’t decode the words she had apparently written. All she could figure was that people with amnesia didn’t forget everything. They just forgot the important things.

She closed the book and read aloud the sole word on the cover that she could understand.

“Serendipity.”

The mule was not impressed, and made a low braying noise to indicate so.

“Oh, stop being such an ass,” she said as she placed the book back in its sack. Then she sighed a long, heavy sigh and looked around, wondering where to travel next.

Forward seemed as good a direction as any.

“Stop.”

She lifted her hand to brush away the thing that was tickling her face and groaned. Her head ached horribly, and all she wanted to do was sleep away the pain. Her hand fell back limply and she slipped off to sleep.

“Ow!”

Whatever had tickled her now bit her lightly on the cheek. She lifted her hand again, and this time made contact with a warm, furry object, smacking it soundly away from her face. She forced her eyes open and groaned again at the bright sunlight streaming through the trees. She was lying under a tall tree, in some sort of glade. She could hear running water behind her, and could see mountains off in the distance in front of her, blocked somewhat by the rather large black panther standing in front of her…

She gasped, the blood draining from her face. She pressed her back against the trunk of the tree. “Oh, nice kitty,” she stammered. “Please don’t eat me.” She squeezed her eyes tightly and waited for the enormous teeth to snap down, but minutes passed and nothing happened. Curiosity got the better of her, and she cautiously opened her eyes to see what was taking so long. The panther was stretched out in the grass, and she thought it looked like he was grinning at her.

“Well? Aren’t you going to eat me?” she demanded. The large cat just rolled his eyes and yawned. She felt foolish now, and moved away from the tree, glaring at the cat. She stood and stretched, wincing at the pain in her temple. She felt the area gingerly and discovered a large, tender knot. “That explains the headache,” she muttered. She glared at the panther.

The cat just blinked benignly. She sighed. “Okay, so how did I get here?” She gestured at the pleasant glade. The panther watched her closely.

"You? You brought me here?" He blinked again. “The last thing I remember is going… that is to say, I was doing… hmm.” Her brow furrowed. “I haven’t the slightest clue what I was doing. Isn’t that odd?” The panther casually examined its paw, flexing his claws.

“What is odd is that I am talking to a panther.” She spotted a large leather bound book covered in what looked to be gold symbols in the grass next to the panther, and she slowly moved toward it, glancing cautiously at the animal. As she inched forward, the cat growled softly, and before she could back away he had snapped the book up in his jaws and padded over to her. He placed the book at her feet and sat, his large golden eyes staring into hers. She picked the book up slowly.

“One would think you weren’t such a dumb animal after all,” she remarked as she turned with the book. A low growl came from behind her, and a paw smacked her firmly on the backside. She yelped. “Stop that!” The panther winked slowly and sank into the grass. She rubbed her bottom and sat down under the tree.

The book was old, beautiful, and covered in writing she didn’t understand. She opened it to find more of the same, except for two words at the top of the first page.

“For Talia,” she read aloud. As she read the name the panther’s ears perked up, and she looked at him. “Is that you?” The cat shook his head slowly.

“Is it me?” she asked. His head dipped once in response. “Well, that’s one mystery solved.” She closed the book. “Just a hundred more to go.”

She was lying in a bunk on an ancient sailing ship, feeling the ship rise and fall on the gentle ocean swells. She could enjoy the soothing motion all day, she thought, if it weren’t for the terrible odor that was disturbing her rest. She nuzzled her face further into her silky pillow, trying to escape the smell. The further she nuzzled, the stronger it became. Annoyed, she sat up to investigate…

…and nearly fell off the back of the giant stinkworm she was laying on.

Stinkworms are aptly named. Their malodorous smell is best described as a cross between decaying flesh and sour milk. No one willingly rides a stinkworm. If you’re on a stinkworm, then you know you have problems.

But she suspected that her problems were just beginning. She was hitching a ride on the foul creature, but she didn’t know why she was. Or where she was. Or who she was.

Before she had time to digest this information, she caught a flash of color. Looking around, she saw that she was surrounded by green. Green trees blended with rolling green hills and the pale green of the sky. Even the stinkworm was green. Then she looked down and groaned. This was not going to be her day.

The flash of color was her. Or, more specifically, it was her clothes. Her garish clothing was a stark contrast to the green world. She was wearing billowing pantaloons in a lovely shade of chartreuse, accented by bold orange stripes. Her shirt was made in a similar style, but in a shocking shade of red. The designer had forgone the orange stripes, and instead substituted bright splashes of yellow and fuchsia. And, if she wasn’t mistaken, she was also wearing a hat. She reached up and felt it. Yep, it was definitely a hat, a tall pointy one.

“Could this day get any worse?” she muttered.

No sooner had those fateful words left her lips than she heard strange slapping sounds. The stinkworm doubled his speed, and she reached out for a better grip. That was when she noticed the book.

There, strapped to the neck of the stinkworm, was a worn book. The cover seemed to be embossed with a series of runes, all surrounding one word – Krystana. The runes seemed strangely familiar. She was reaching for the book when she noticed the sounds again, but this time much closer.

She looked up and saw where her ride was taking her. Ahead was a field of green, covered with large, moving green lumps. One of the lumps separated into two, then moved back into one.

She gave a gasp of dismay. Those lumps were giant stinkworms. Mating. Her trusty steed increased his undulating pace, obviously anxious to become part of the action. If she didn’t act quickly, she was going to die a horrible death, ground between mating stinkworms.

Her day had just gotten worse.

His world was bouncing. The more he thought about it though, bouncing wasn’t the right word. The steady up and down motion was too slow for a bounce, and it seemed to be almost backwards. Gently opening his eyes, he realized why it seemed so strange. One foot was tangled in stirrups, and he was hanging upside-down from a slow and lumbering beast. The long fur had been tickling his bare legs and had been the cause of his awakening. How he got here was something he’d have to think about later. All the blood rushing to his head made thinking too difficult right now.

Pulling himself up by the saddle, and trying not to impale himself on the dangling sword strapped to his side, he finally managed to flop himself across the beast. The long mangled fur of his ride had a stench that caused him to turn green, but after slipping and getting a face full of fur, he realized it wasn’t the beast that stank. Apparently he himself hadn’t bathed in weeks. Finally managing to swing into an upright position, it was then that he noticed the thin, colorful paperwork rolled up and stuffed into the pouch on the side of the saddle. He pulled it out, unrolled it and looked at the strange writing on the cover. He didn’t have a clue what it said.

There were only a handful of pages, and as he flipped through them, he noticed most of them were blank. He was proud that it had only taken a few minutes to determine this. It got confusing again, though, when he discovered the first one did have something on it. There were three square pictures that filled most of the page and they looked like they had been drawn by a child using colored chalk. The silly little pictures seemed to tell a story though, which got him curious. He liked stories.

The first picture was of a big, dumb barbarian, hanging by the saddle from the side of a huge, woolly beast. This one made the man laugh, although he wasn’t sure why. The second showed the ugly barbarian struggling to get up, and landing with an “oomph” across the back of the beast. The man giggled again. The third showed the silly barbarian reading a book. The man let out a full belly guffaw, knowing that barbarians don’t know how to read.

Then the man noticed a fourth picture starting to appear in the bottom corner. He was amazed he hadn’t seen it before, and even more stunned when he realized it was getting more colorful and easier to see. The magic of the book made him happy to have found this unique treasure in his possession. As the picture became clear, he realized the bumbling barbarian was in for some trouble. The fourth picture now showed the beast running at full speed, and a tree branch sweeping the barbarian off of it's back with a “thud” onto the ground. The man grimaced, thinking of the pain that would cause.

Suddenly something terrified the beast. It took a second for the barbarian to realize this was real, and not in the picture book. Holding onto the book in one hand, and a tuft of fur in the other, the man hung on for his life as the trail swept past him. He never saw the branch that caught him across the forehead, but he definitely felt the pain in his backbone when he hit the ground.

The woman stared, perplexed at an unfamiliar landscape of red sand dotted with grotesque outcrops. Spires of feldspar soared from its arid surface, limned against a sun that seemed too big. An improbably gigantic moon loomed just above the horizon.

The woman's mind buzzed with questions. Ten minutes earlier she had awoken slumped over her saddle on the back of a Lederbeast, without the faintest idea of where she was, how she had gotten there or, for that matter, who she was.
Reaching inside her mind for the sense of identity that resides within all mortals, she had met only a curious gray wall of nothingness.

She gazed down at her molynadium onesuit: armor. She was, no doubt, a warrior. She pulled her monofil swordhilt out of its holster with a fluid ease that reinforced the perception. With a faint squeeze of her hand, a meter of deadly mono-molecular filament sprang into a quivering tautness. Vibrating at a thousand hertz, it could cut through steel or decapitate a man with equal ease.

This she knew.
She also knew the sword would only operate for her. So why couldn’t she remember anything else? Perplexed, she deactivated the blade, holstered the hilt, and picked up the book which had been in her hand when she first awoke. She sensed that, somehow, the book was of great importance.

She had never seen anything like it. The book was ancient, crafted in an alien material, with strange symbols on its cover, and a single name in Oldspeak, "Tanath". It meant nothing to her.

"Who am I?" she asked the Lederbeast.

The animal, fully five meters long, crouched beneath the huge, leathery carapace of its folded wings and stared at her solemnly. Lederbeasts were pleasant animals, docile and loyal, with a mental age roughly equivalent to that of a three-year old child. They were also slightly telepathic.

"Woman," came the answer,"Nice woman; friend."

She sighed. No luck there. "Where did we come from?"
"Not knowing… nothing…", came the words in her head.
She stroked the beast's leathery neck. "I shall call you Rider," she whispered, "I shall be your friend."
"Yes…nice…Rider…friend," said the voice in her head.

Suddenly, the sand around them exploded and a savage-eyed, snarling animal with huge forepaws and a snake-like tail, burst from the earth. Another followed, and yet another. With a squeal of fear, Rider unfolded his massive wings and took to the air.

The woman dropped into a reflexive crouch, the monofil sword at the ready. She sliced the first beast in two, swung around and decapitated another, but more of them burst out of the sand.

They attacked from all sides. She whirled and hacked fiercely, knowing she could not hold out long against such numbers. She called to Rider, but despite his size, the beast hung above them, bleating in fear.

At one point, she stepped backwards and her heel impacted the book. With a crackle of blue fire, the book flew open. A rainbow swathe of colors lit the air, deliquesced and dropped back into the book.
Then the portal opened.

The woman recognized it without knowing how. "Rider!" she screamed, "Dive into that, now. I said, DO IT NOW!"

The beast let out a fearful wail, but the woman screamed the order with such ferocity that it obeyed. It dropped like a stone, pulled up at the last moment and skimmed towards the shimmering doorway.
The woman hacked another of the sandbeasts in two, then, as Rider sailed past, she grabbed the saddle and leapt onto its back

Woman and Lederbeast shot thought the portal - into the unknown.

The sun shone high in the skies, allowing light to filter down from the ancient boughs to the forest floor. A soft bed of leaves sat silently beneath the verdant towers, bearing witness to their graceful aging. Branches rustled from the weight of squirrels, larks, and the occasional tree frog moving to and from their homes. The singsong of birds and the chattering of chipmunks rang out beside the overly talkative babbling brook, which followed an easterly trail toward the rising sun.

Fluttering from branch to branch among the woodland beasts, a diminutive creature, most commonly called a fairy, rested high above a wandering horse. Hair the color of burnt orange streamed down the front of a cream colored female body. She had petite wings that were shaped like petals, colored like pale roses, and accenuated with silvery highlights. From her high vantage point she could see a man lying against the neck of a brown mare.

He was clothed in a robe of light gray with a tight brown belt of hemp, and sandals of leather or hide. A priest or mage the fairy thought judging by the runed book that was poking out of the man’s saddlebag. The human appeared to be either sleeping or unconscious on his horse.

The fairy flew down past a few branches getting close enough to the forest floor that the smell of dirt was strong in her nose. The tiny being noticed that the belt was not so much a belt as it was a rope tied around the man to secure him to the horse. She flapped her wings and swiftly propelled herself toward the human.

The chestnut colored horse whinnied and shook its head as the small creature alighted on the robed man’s back. The fairy whispered something soothing and the beast immediately calmed. Producing an exceptionally small but sharp dagger, she sliced through the three strands of braided cord. With a snap the rope came apart, and the startled fairy jumped into the air. The human shifted and fell to the ground with a loud thud.

Flapping her wings vigorously to stay aloft, the fairy watched as the man’s eyes fluttered, and opened. Lying on his back, the man put both hands on the ground beside him and began to push himself up. He let out a small whimper with the effort it took to sit up.

“What happened?” he asked, rubbing the back of his head. “Where am I?”

He looked around and noticed the forest that surrounded him, and the small, yet very beautiful, pink and silver winged creature that hovered in front of him.

“Tied to your horse you were, sir. The how and why is beyond me though,” she said.

“My mind seems hazy,” he groaned. “I can see flashes of a cottage, and I remember drinking something bitter. ” He shook his head in an attempt to focus.

“My name is Calina. What is yours?” she asked.

“I don’t remember,” he said.

The man stood up and wobbled on his feet a little, feeling sick. Taking stock he noticed the book sitting awkwardly in the bags tied to the horse.

Calina flew toward the equine and landed lightly on its rump as he pulled out the leather bound tome. Gold runes were centered on the cover of the book.

“Those runes are elvish. Maybe we can ask them for help!” she said excitedly.

Nauseously, he opened it slowly and peered at aged yellow paper filled with a flowing script.

Then his head swam and he fell into darkness.

There are many things more annoying that not remembering your own name, but at the moment she couldn’t think of any. Almost as frustrating was the gnawing feeling that she was actually not a ‘she’ at all. Of course there was nothing to base this on. She had no memories, no personal items, nothing except the rather plain dress and shoes she wore, the unremarkable, but sturdy horse cropping at the grass nearby, and the cryptic book she held in her hands.

At first, she had suspected the book might offer a clue to her identity, but the runic script was indecipherable. She ran her hands over its leather cover. Leather from what animal she didn’t know, and probably didn’t want to. The only disruption in its smooth surface was the raised character in the middle of the front cover. It looked so familiar, hinting at knowledge that she couldn’t quite grasp, just beyond reach. She had a feeling that if she could decipher that rune, she could begin to unravel the mystery of her situation. She traced the symbol with her fingertip, but no torrent of knowledge flowed into her. The pages inside were no more helpful. Filled with similar but less elaborate writing, it offered no wisdom, no guidance.

She leaned back against the rough bark of the sweet gum tree and, for the hundredth time, contemplated her situation. She was alone, with no food, no money, and no supplies. She had no destination in mind, and no map to guide her. She had no memories to provide a context to her situation. On the other hand, she was not being followed; at least, she had seen no signs of pursuit. She was not injured in any way. She was young and healthy. Moreover, the weather was perfect for traveling: not too hot, not too cold, and not raining.

For the hundredth time she hit an invisible wall in her pondering. “What should I do now? Try to find a village or town? Stay here in this glade until something happens? Backtrack and try to find out what happened to me?”

A rustling in the woods on the far side of the glade interrupted her reverie. Quietly, she stole into the underbrush, hidden from sight, but still able to observe what or who might come into the clearing. Her stomach lurched when she caught sight the horse. He was still nosing the ground, but the rolling of his eyes and the lifting of one back hoof belied his nervousness. She cursed herself silently, but made no noise as she watched the woods on the far side of the glade. At least she still had the book “I can walk if I have to,” she thought. She continued to watch silently, hearing only the blood rushing in her ears, until she felt a hand on her shoulder. She let out an involuntary squeak of surprise and the hand moved to cover her mouth. “Shhh,” hissed the voice behind her.

“Michael! Michael Simpson wake up right this instant!” the lady shrieked into his ear, waking him from his peaceful slumber. “If you aren’t the laziest thing I’ve ever seen,” she continued, stomping out of the barn door.

Michael rubbed his eyes and looked around the cold, quiet barn. Everything was a thick haze in his sleepy mind. He jumped off the back of a tall, muscular horse and stretched his arms high into the air. His legs ached from sleeping in such a strange position, slumped over the horse‘s back, his legs dangling over the sides. “Sorry, girl,” he whispered. “Did I drool on ya?”

The horse’s ears twitched an irritated confirmation as Michael stepped around her to take a look at his surroundings. Something felt familiar about the place, and obviously that woman knew him as ‘Michael,’ but nothing else was coming together in his mind. He rubbed his eyes again, when he noticed something tucked under the horse’s saddle.

He reached in and pulled out a small, leather-bound book, tied shut with a piece of thick twine. Several symbols were burned into its worn cover, and the tattered pages were filled with a sort of writing he couldn’t read. He sat on a wooden crate and flipped through the whole book several times, trying to figure out where it came from. He just couldn’t shake the fog of sleep that was clouding his memory.

“Hey, freak!” came a voice from the door.

Michael stuffed the book under a pile of hay and stood up. “What,” he asked hesitantly, moving into a shadow and pretending to groom the horse.

“Mom told me to come make sure you’re actually working,” the freckle-faced boy said, dropping down into a pile of hay. He pulled a rolled-up magazine out of his coat pocket and flipped through the pages. “I’ll be your supervisor today,” he sneered, not even looking up.

“I don’t need a supervisor,” Michael said, trying to sound confident. He grabbed a brush off the wall and started grooming the horse. “I work just fine without you.”

“Yeah, I heard she found you working really hard this morning,” the boy snorted. “What kind of idiot takes a nap in plain sight when they’re supposed to be doing chores? Genius.”

Michael turned his back on the boy he gathered was his brother. He couldn’t get his mind off that book. The symbols on the front seemed so familiar to him, but the writing inside meant nothing. He crouched down to pick it up again when his head began to throb. He pressed his fingers to his temples and closed his eyes. The pain was so intense, he could barely breath.

When he opened his eyes again, he noticed something different about the book. The symbols on the cover seemed to be moving, swirling around as if they were being stirred. Michael rubbed his eyes and looked again. He gasped as he realized they now said MICHAEL.

He grabbed the book and glanced over at his brother, who was still immersed in his magazine, giggling stupidly at one of the pages. “Genius,” he thought to himself, rolling his eyes. He stuffed the book under his coat and stepped silently to the other side of the stall to take another look.