The Other Side (Of the Bridge)

Ishmael’s father Samuel died when Ishmael was three. A heart attack in the middle of the night ended his brief fatherhood. He died in the bed he had slept in as a child, back at his family home in Milton, Nebraska during a family visit. The task of raising Ishmael fell to Ishmael’s mother. Ishmael was a curious child, an adventurous child. Because he didn’t have a father, he was also a boy easily drawn to the company of grown men. His insatiable curiosity didn’t help either. His mother often berated him for this careless trust, but no matter how much she scolded him Ishmael couldn’t help himself.

Ishmael was always a handful for his mother and by the time he was eight, she was tired. She had lost her job and as she tried to find work in a fractured economy, she couldn’t take Ishmael with her across the country. Ishmael was sent off to Milton, to live with his paternal grandparents in his father’s childhood home. Ishmael was less than pleased to waste his fall in a sleepy town, but he had no choice, for he was just a kid.

It was morning on a school day and Ishmael was asleep in his bed, dreaming grand dreams. The sun had been up for hours, and it was time to wake up.

“Get up, kiddo,” said his Grandma Jane, pulling away the blankets tucked under his arms. Ishmael opened his eyes and sat up. He yawned the sleep out of his mouth and rubbed it out of his eyes, then bounded forth and scurried for the breakfast table downstairs. Grandpa Mike was sitting at the table reading a newspaper. An empty seat waited for Ishmael, a bowl of corn flakes sat on the tabletop ready to be filled with milk.

“Welcome to the land of the living, sonny,” Grandpa Mike said as he looked up from his newspaper. “Sleep well?”

Ishmael shrugged his shoulders in response. “I don’t know. I guess.”

“Excited for school?”

“It’s fine.” It was not.

“You make any friends at school yet?”

“Not really…” Ishmael didn’t like the other kids at school in Milton. They were boring, loud. Grandpa Mike had once called some people ‘gooks,’ and Ishmael thought that the kids at school might be those too. He liked smart people, grown-up people, people who lived in big cities and wore fancy suits and slept on ‘moneybeds,’ as Grandma Jane would say. At the very least, he liked the sort of people who understood that Africa was not a country and that a zebra was not a horse. “Too bad,” Grandpa Mike said, retreating from the subject and returning to his newspaper. Ishmael munched away on his corn flakes.

“Hmm, today’s All Soul’s Day,” Grandpa Mike said, relating the second page of the newspaper. “You know, the Day of the Dead. Better behave yourself at school ‘cause the dead’ll be watching.” Grandpa Mike made ghost noises, but Ishmael didn’t laugh. His grandparents were nice, but they couldn’t replace his mom, and he missed her dreadfully. It was hard to be happy without her around, no matter how hard Grandpa Mike tried to cheer him up.

“Right, Grandpa…. I’d better get ready for school.”

Ishmael left the kitchen, got ready and went to school. It was not fun, as usual.

After school that day, Ishmael didn’t go with the other kids in his class to play softball in the park. Had he been at home, he would’ve spent the afternoon with his few friends or his mother it she wasn’t working, but he wasn’t at home. Instead, he wandered down to Centennial Square – built by the town, but neglected by the townsfolk – to play imaginary games armed with nothing but a blue ball.

Centennial Square was dull. The grass was brittle and yellow, the cottonwood trees withered, the stream dried-up. All there was in way of decoration was a rickety old footbridge that used to cross the stream, but now was only a reminder of the years of sustained drought the town had suffered. The sounds of the rest of the town seemed to fade away in the Square; the smells of the bakery two blocks down dissipated as they passed through the cottonwood branches.

Ishmael liked the Square. It was private and quiet and had just the right amount of mystery to inspire his imagination to wondrous things. However, today Ishmael’s imagination was not up to the task of creating a fantasy world. It was content with making him a superhero and his blue ball a ball of ice.

And then the Grey Man arrived. He drove up to the Square in a grey convertible. The sound of the engine arrested Ishmael’s imagination momentarily, causing him to drop his blue ball, which rolled over towards the Grey Man’s car. The Grey Man exited his car and reached down to pick up Ishmael’s ball.

“This yours, son?” the Grey Man asked.

Ishmael could only nod in response; he was too busy staring at the Grey Man’s appearance: shiny grey leather shoes, the toes pointed; a grey suit with sharp lines, trimly fit; a grey silk shirt, no tie; a pair of grey sunglasses that he removed to reveal a pair of stunning grey pupils. The Grey Man smiled: flawless teeth – a charismatic smile. He was impossibly attractive.

“Here you go.” The Grey Man bounced the ball back to Ishmael who bent over to pick it up as it settled at his feet. As Ishmael removed his gaze from the Grey Man, he instantly forgot what the Grey Man looked like, as if the Grey Man’s face were but a fleeting dream. When he looked back, he remembered, and it was as if he had known the Grey Man’s face his entire life. Ishmael thought that if only his mom could meet a man who looked this good, she might finally be happy.

“What game were you playing?”

Ishmael hesitated answering at first, but figured that merely talking to this man would be harmless. “Just make-believe.”

“Ah, the best game of all.” The Grey Man paused and took in his surroundings. “This Square seems ideal for that kind of game.” He looked back at Ishmael. “What’s your name, son?” “Ishmael.”

“And, Ishmael, how old are you?” The Grey Man already knew the answer.

“Eight.”

“Eight? Good age. Age where a boy figures out a lot about himself. You seem like a smart kid. You do well in school?” Ishmael nodded. “Good kid. School’s important. Got to do well so you can make enough money and drive a car like I do.” The Grey Man laughed, a strong bellowing laugh that reminded Ishmael of Errol Flynn’s laugh in the old Robin Hood movie. Ishmael smiled and the Grey Man moved closer. He knelt down and met Ishmael’s eyes at their level. “Have you ever seen magic?”

Ishmael had, at the circus and at a friend’s birthday party back home and occasionally from his grandpa. “Of course,” he said. The Grey Man reached behind Ishmael’s ear and produced a coin, the oldest trick in the book. “That’s nothing special. My grandpa can even do that.”

“Really? Your grandpa must be a clever fellow.”

Ishmael giggled. “He’s not really. He’s just silly, but he’s real nice.”

“That’s good. Grandpas should be nice. Though, I bet your grandpa can’t do what I’ll do next. You see that cottonwood tree over there?” The Grey Man pointed to the large cottonwood on the other side of the Square. Ishmael nodded. “Okay, close your eyes and count to three and I’ll make that tree disappear.”

Ishmael was too quick for this. He stared at the Grey Man incredulously. “I’m not dumb, mister.” “Come on, Ishmael. Trust me.” The Grey Man smiled his winning smile and Ishmael couldn’t resist. He closed his eyes.

One. Two. Three.

“Open your eyes, Ishmael.”

Ishmael did. The cottonwood tree wasn’t there. Ishmael blinked and the tree still wasn’t there. He was confused. He scratched his head and tried to remember where exactly the cottonwood tree had been. It was like trying to recall a memory from early childhood. It was like trying to remember his father’s voice. He couldn’t. He became upset, like his intelligence was being toyed with, like he was being patronized for being a child and that an adult would instantly understand the trick.

“How did you do that?”

“Magic,” the Grey Man simply said.

“Don’t think I’m stupid, mister! There’s no such thing as magic. Now how did you make the tree disappear?”

“I’m not lying to you, Ishmael. Magic. There’s magic everywhere. You just have to know where to look for it.”

“You just think I’m a dumb kid and won’t understand.”

“Of course not, Ishmael. You’re not dumb. And magic is real. You see that bridge right there?” Ishmael looked at the rickety footbridge in the centre of the Square, then back at the Grey Man.

“Did you know that that bridge is magic?”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Honest-to-goodness. If you make a wish, hold your breath, and cross the bridge, your wish comes true.”

This was too good to be true. But the Grey Man had made the cottonwood tree disappear. Perhaps he was telling the truth.

“You telling the truth?”

“Yes.”

“You promise?”

“Promise.”

“Prove it.”

“Okay.” The Grey Man picked up Ishmael’s ball. “You don’t mind if I use this, do you, Ishmael? Good.” He walked over to the bridge and stopped. “Just watch.” He made a wish, held his breath, walked forward onto the bridge and tossed the ball across. It did not land on the ground on the other side.

“Where did the ball go?”

“What did I tell you, Ishmael? The bridge is magic. I wished for it to disappear and it did.” Ishmael didn’t know what to believe. He couldn’t see the ball, but it could’ve been just another magic trick. He was skeptical.

“How can I be sure you didn’t just do another magic trick?” Ishmael asked.

“Why don’t you try it out for yourself? I’m sure there’s some wish you want granted. Cross the bridge and see whether it comes true.”

Ishmael did have such a wish and he wanted it to come true more than anything. What was the risk? The Grey Man had been right about everything so far and he seemed nice. It’s not like he was one of those creepy old men they talk about on the evening news. And even though his mother had warned him not to listen to older men, his habits got the better of him. He was going to try it. And anyways, he wasn’t scared. Magic wasn’t real, so what was there to worry about?

“Okay.” Ishmael approached the bridge and stopped just short of it. He looked at the Grey Man. “Good luck, Ishmael,” the Grey Man said. “See you on the other side.”

Ishmael turned away from the Grey Man, made a wish, took a deep breath, and walked across the bridge.

Ishmael didn’t think anything had happened when he arrived on the other side. It seemed to be the same bridge he had crossed over on and his wish was nowhere to be seen. He turned to berate the Grey Man for lying, but the Grey Man was gone. His car was gone. He must have driven off when Ishmael wasn’t looking. The cottonwood tree he had made disappear was back, but now it was full of leaves, healthy and vibrant. His ball sat before its trunk. Or at least what he at first believed to be his ball. His ball was blue and this one was red. But it looked the same. Ishmael went and picked it up. It felt the same. He bounced it. It bounced the same. He concluded that it must be the same ball and that he must’ve confused the colors. Colors don’t just change.

“Hey, you.”

Ishmael looked up and saw a small boy, about his age, standing on the outside of the Square. The boy moved closer and Ishmael got a better look at him: black messy hair, tan skin.

“Did you just cross the bridge?” the boy asked Ishmael.

“Yeah…why?” Ishmael said.

“Aw, you got to bring a ball with you!” The boy raced over to Ishmael’s side and snatched his ball away. “When I came over, I didn’t get to bring a ball with me. You’re lucky.”

Ishmael thought this boy was strange. What was the big deal about a ball? Don’t all boys have a ball?

“Wanna play catch?” The boy seemed excited by the prospect of playing with Ishmael’s ball. Ishmael decided to humor him.

“Okay, I guess.”

The boy ran a few paces away from Ishmael, turned, and tossed him the ball. They played catch for a while, each throw more intense than the last, each catch more heroic.

“What are you doing, Jim?”

Jim fumbled his catch and the ball fell to the ground. “What is it, George? Can’t you see that I’m playing catch?”

Ishmael turned and looked at George and thought he was looking at Jim. Only when he looked back at Jim did he realize that the two were twins. He then wondered which one was the evil twin. All twins have an evil twin – that’s just how things work.

“Yeah, I can see you’re playing catch!” George said. “But why are you playing catch? And who’re you playing it with?”

“Some new kid who crossed the bridge. Didn’t catch his name.”

“A new kid?”

“Ishmael.” Ishmael felt the need to clarify his name. He didn’t like being called ‘the new kid.’ He got it enough at school and wouldn’t stand for it here.

“Well, we best bring Ishmael with us to the Festival,” George said to Jim.

“Yes!” Jim jumped excitedly and ran to George’s side. “You should be excited, Ishmael. The Festival’s the best. Only happens once a year so you know it’s good.”

Ishmael didn’t know there was a festival going on in Milton right now. He thought his grandparents would’ve let him know if there was, or that his school would have at least mentioned it. But perhaps these kids were from the outskirts and had some special festival of their own. He’d only been in Milton a few months and didn’t know every tradition the people here kept.

“Now come on,” Jim said to Ishmael. “You really don’t want to miss the Festival.”

Jim and George waited for Ishmael a moment before walking out of Centennial Square. Ishmael caught up to them and they left for the Festival grounds together.

“What’s this Festival, exactly?” Ishmael asked George or Jim. He had forgotten which one was which and didn’t know whom he was addressing.

“Well, it’s a big celebration type thing,” Jim said. “Happens every year on this day.”

“It commemorates our coming here,” George said. “At least, I think it does. Alice should be able to tell you more about it. We don’t know everything.”

“Who’s Alice?”

“You sure ask a lot of questions,” George said.

“Don’t be a jerk, George,” Jim said.

“I’m not a jerk, Jim,” George said. “Ishmael just asks a lot of questions. Nosey kid.” Jim shoved George off the sidewalk. George shoved back, and a scuffle broke out between the two of them. Jim grabbed George by the hair and tugged hard. George retaliated with a kick to Jim’s shin causing Jim to let go of his hair and run down the street to safety. By the time Jim stopped running, they were on the edge of town and had reached the Festival grounds.

In the field stood a giant circus tent. The orange and red stripes typical of the circus danced and glowed on the canvas. Its colors mesmerized Ishmael. The sounds of song and dance emanating from inside the tent called to him, luring him in like the ringing of an ice cream truck. Jim and George saw the look on Ishmael’s face and led him inside.

There were thousands of people inside. From the outside it had not seemed like the tent could hold that many people, but once inside, the tent seemed to expand to the size of a football field – larger. There were rows of tables and chairs and people occupying them and lanterns lighting the room and fireworks going off and people singing and laughing and having a merry time. In the centre of the tent was a dance floor, around which circles of people in elaborate costumes decorated with flowers and skulls and wondrous head garments danced the danse macabre. The music flowed over and through Ishmael and compelled him to join the dance. Jim stopped him from doing so.

“It really gets you the first time you see it,” he said. “Though you should probably learn the steps before you try to join the dance, or you’ll just look silly.”

“Come on, Ishmael,” George said, moving out of the entryway and into the rows of tables. “Let’s find Alice.”

As they waded through the crowd of people and further into the tent, Ishmael wondered at the exact size of Milton. He hadn’t known so many people lived here, but maybe it was a festival where other towns took part too. Still, hopefully he would see his grandparents and ask them why they hadn’t told him about the Festival. Maybe it was all an elaborate surprise. He hoped so. At least that way they would have an excuse.

“I want to try to find my grandparents if I can,” Ishmael said to George.

“How long have they been here?”

“Oh, forever,” Ishmael said. “They’re super old. They just live on the other side of town and I was hoping they’d be here.”

George stopped and turned to Jim, muttering something that Ishmael couldn’t hear. Jim nodded. “I don’t think your grandparents are coming,” George said as he turned to Ishmael.

“But don’t worry. You’ll probably see them soon enough, anyways,” Jim said.

“Shut up!” George slapped Jim hard on the arm. “We’ll let Alice explain things. She’s better at it than us.”

George continued walking further into the tent, Jim beside him and Ishmael in tow. Ishmael felt like asking what George had said to Jim, but decided it would be rude and didn’t. “Oh, I make sure to come to After-Milton every year for the Festival. It just can’t be missed,” Ishmael heard an elderly man say as they continued through the tent. After-Milton? He’d never heard anyone call it that before. The old man was probably just a little ‘cuckoo,’ as Grandma would say.

Something caught Ishmael’s attention and he wandered away from Jim and George. It was a magician – the second he had seen that day – or at least it seemed to be a magic show. An older man with long white hair stood on a platform before a crowd. Instead of a top hat and cape, the man wore a black and white skeleton outfit – the kind some kids had worn on Halloween the day before, only this one looked more authentic. The man was juggling lit torches, but Ishmael couldn’t see the torches, only the flames.

“…And finally, POOF!” the older man snuffed the flames out with his hands and the crowd burst into applause.

“Mr. Dravich is the best magician we’re ever had in After-Milton,” the middle-aged woman standing next to Ishmael said. “He’s been here longer than most people can remember. All the more time to practice.” The old woman standing alongside nodded in agreement.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Dravich began again, his thick Russian accent cutting into his words like a knife into cabbage. “My final performance dis evening vill be extra special. I’ve verk on it for many years and finally ready to show you all it here tonight. I call it in my mother tongue, Forma- Lovkach.”

Everyone clapped, including Ishmael.

“And now ve begin.” Mr. Dravich removed the skull hat from his head, tossed it aside, kneeled and hid his face behind his hands. He began to chant in Russian, a mesmerizing chant, a terrifying chant, the kind of chant Ishmael equated with vampires and witchdoctors and spooky things in general. It sent a chill down his spine. The chanting got louder and Ishmael began to feel rumblings in the ground beneath him. It got louder and deeper until Mr. Dravich tore the hands away from his face and let loose a mighty roar. His face had become that of a Siberian tiger’s, the white fur bristling under the warm glow of the lanterns above. This was like no magic Ishmael had ever seen. Even the Grey Man’s tricks paled in comparison.

“There you are!” George pulled Ishmael away from the crowd.

“See, I told you he’d want to see Mr. Dravich’s show,” Jim said, poking out from behind George. “So, you were right! Big whoop! Ishmael this is Alice.” George spun Ishmael around and an eighteen-year-old girl with brilliant red hair was there to meet him.

“Hi, Ishmael, I’m Alice.”

“Hi,” was all Ishmael could mutter. He felt his cheeks heat up. He stood there frozen until Jim jabbed him in the ribs and he came to.

“How old are you, Ishmael?” Alice asked.

“Eight.”

“And you crossed the bridge earlier today?”

“Yeah, why?”

“How did it happen?”

How did he cross the bridge? Easily, he walked across it. Ishmael was beginning to worry that there was something wrong with these people. “I just walked across it holding my breath. This guy in a grey suit had told me it was magic and so I did what he said, even though I knew it wasn’t really magic. Magic isn’t real. That’s what my mom told me-” Ishmael stopped. He didn’t like the look on Alice’s face. He turned to George who shared the same sign of shock.

“What’s wrong?”

“Describe the man in the grey suit, Ishmael,” Alice said.

“I dunno…. He had a grey suit and shirt and sunglasses, and drove a fancy grey car. He did a few magic tricks that were really neat-”

“George, run and get Sam.”

George ran off at an alarming pace.

“Wait, what’s going on?” Jim asked, clearly as confused as Ishmael.

Alice turned to Jim. “Ishmael may not be dead.”

“What do you mean he may not be dead? He crossed the bridge! He must be!”

It took a moment for what they were saying to sink in. He was dead? He didn’t feel dead. He looked down at his hands. They still had color. He listened for his heart beat. It was still there, and beginning to race. He was confused and beginning to get real worried and his breaths were becoming shorter, more spastic. His head began to throb and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. He was hyperventilating.

“Calm down, Ishmael, breathe!” Alice caught Ishmael as he fell forward.

All Ishmael could say between breaths was: “I want my mom.” If only mom was here, she would make things better. She always made things better. But she wasn’t here. Ishmael began to cry and Alice cradled him on her shoulder.

“He’s definitely alive, Jim,” Alice said. “I can feel his heartbeat.” She turned to Ishmael: “Calm down, honey. Everything’s going to be fine.” She stroked his hair.

“I want my mommy! Please, get my mommy!”

“We’ll get her, Ishmael. We will. Now, please, just calm down.”

“What’s exactly happening here?”

“Sam, you made it-”

Ishmael didn’t hear the rest of what Alice said. He looked up when he heard Sam’s voice and instantly recognized the face: the brown eyes, long nose, and chestnut hair. The face jumped out from old photographs decorating his mantelpiece and from the scrapbook he kept under his bed. It was there in his hazy memories, memories that filled him with warmth and assurance and a strange glow in his chest. The face had calmed him and nursed him when he had tumbled down the stairs and was left crying on the floor. The face had encouraged him to take his first steps, swing his first bat, throw his first ball, color his first picture. The face caused Ishmael to forget his hyperventilation, forget his predicament. It made him feel like bumblebees were flying around inside his head, like the butterflies had escaped from his stomach and into his heart. It forced a smile onto his face. It made him happier than when he had learned to ride a bicycle, calmer than when his mom had rocked him to sleep after having the chicken pox, more excited than when he had arrived at Disneyland for the first time, and cry harder than he had ever cried before.

“Dad?” Ishmael said from between his tears of joy. He rushed forward and hugged his father as hard as an eight-year-old boy could hug a grown man.

Sam bent down and hugged Ishmael back. “Ishmael, what are you doing here?” Tears began to trickle down his pronounced cheekbones. Dead people can cry just as hard as living ones. Their hug seemed to last longer than time could tell.

Sam fought back his tears and turned to Alice.

“How did he get here?”

“The Grey Man tricked him into crossing the bridge,” she said. “Same thing that happened to me. Only he’s got the chance that I didn’t.”

“Right. It’s not sundown yet.”

“Dad, what’s going on?”

“We don’t have time to explain. We have to get you home, Ishmael. Before the sun goes down. Come on.”

“No, I’m not leaving you,” Ishmael said. “I made a wish and it came true. I wished to see you. The Grey Man was right. The bridge is magic!”

“It’s more than magic, Ishmael. It’s the border between life and death,” Alice said. She turned to Sam. “He deserves to know what happened to him.” She turned back to Ishmael: “This is After- Milton. All the people that have ever died in Milton ‘live’ here, for lack of a better word. The bridge is a portal between Milton and After-Milton. Usually the living can’t cross it-”

“But the Grey Man changed that,” Sam said. “He can manipulate things, change the rules.” “Who is he?” Ishmael said.

“He’s a trickster,” Alice said. “He’s infinitely fascinated by humans and likes meddling in their affairs. Seems most amused by life and death. I don’t think he understands them. He tricked you into After-Milton, and if you stay here past sundown, you can never go back.”

“You mean I’ll die?” Ishmael was beginning to understand.

Alice nodded.

“Which is why we need to get you home, Ishmael,” Sam said. “It’ll be sundown right away. We have to go, now.”

Sam scooped Ishmael up into his arms and began to move towards the exit. Ishmael relaxed and let his dad support his weight and drifted into something like a dream, a state of contentment that only a child can have when in the arms of a father.

“Alice, you stay here.”

“Alright, Sam,” Alice called after him.

Sam carried Ishmael through the crowds of people, past the dancers of the danse macabre, past Mr. Dravich and his crowd of bedazzled spectators, past the tables and chairs and their occupants, and out of the Festival tent.

The sun was on its steady descent towards the horizon and Sam picked up his pace. He trotted back down the street upon which Ishmael and Jim and George had come to the Festival grounds. “You’ve really grown,” Sam said. “Your mom said that you would always be a short little scrawny kid, but I knew better. You’re like your old man.”

Ishmael smiled and nestled his head up against Sam’s chest.

They came into Centennial Square as the sun neared the horizon. Sam stopped just short of the bridge and let Ishmael down. He kneeled and stared into Ishmael’s eyes.

“Time to go, son.”

“But I don’t want to.” Ishmael hugged Sam hard and began to cry again. “My wish came true. I don’t want it to end so soon.”

“Ishmael, you’ve gotta be strong. You can’t stay here. You know you can’t. You’ve got a life to live, a mommy to see. My time ran out a while ago. Yours has just barely begun.”

“But I’m never going to see you again.”

“Yes, you will. Eventually. When you’re old and happy and you’ve had kids of your own and lived to see them grow up healthy and strong. When you’ve lived a life you can be satisfied with. I’ll still be here. I’ll always be here.”

Sam leaned forward and kissed Ishmael on the forehead. “I love you, Ishmael, but you’ve gotta go now.”

Ishmael removed his arms from around Sam’s neck and wiped the warm tears from his face. His gaze dropped to the ground, his breaths deepened. He saw his ball resting on the grass and picked it up.

“Be a good boy.” Sam rustled his son’s hair and touched his son’s face for the last time. Ishmael didn’t want to leave. Every muscle in his body struggled against him. Every beat of his heart begged him to stay one moment longer. For the first time in his life, the moment was passing too quickly. If only the sun would stop in the sky. If only it was earlier in the day. If only he had never come here he would never have had to leave it so soon and live with the knowledge of what he was missing. But if he stayed, he would die. He understood that – finally. And he had a home waiting for him – a family waiting.

He thought of his grandparents, their concern reaching a fever pitch. He thought of his mother’s face, her amber eyes, her curly black hair, her pointed nose, and her smile – her smile of pure love she always wore as she tucked him into bed. He wanted to stay with his father, but not at the expense of his mother. Never at the expense of mother. He had to go home.

With ball in hand, Ishmael turned towards the bridge. He blinked rapidly to fight back the tears filling his eyes. He looked at his father and captured the image in his mind – something he would remember forever. He could barely whisper, “Bye, Dad.”

“Goodbye, son.”

Ishmael turned away from his Dad, made a wish, took a deep breath, and walked across the bridge.

The sun set. Ishmael looked around at Centennial Square. The cottonwood trees were once again withered, the grass once again yellow and brittle. He knew his dad was no longer standing on the other side of the bridge, but he dared to hope and turned to see him. Sam was not there.

“Ishmael!” Grandma Jane and Grandpa Mike raced over to Ishmael’s side and scooped him up, both hugging and scolding him, as the grandparents of a missing child are wont to do.

“Where were you, my boy?” Grandpa Mike asked, concern flooding his voice.

“We were horribly worried you had gotten hurt,” Grandma Jane said.

“Tomorrow after school, you’re coming straight home.”

“Okay, Grandma and Grandpa,” Ishmael said. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to be sorry, son. Just please don’t wander off again,” Grandma Jane said, smothering him in a hug.

“Just where in heaven’s name were you?”

Ishmael looked down at the red ball in his hand. He remembered Alice’s hair, remembered the Festival tent and Mr. Dravich the shapeshifter and the Grey Man and the twins Jim and George. He looked at the bridge and remembered his dad’s face right before he had crossed. He smiled. “I was with Dad.”