THE SUN SQUATTED IN THE sky, watching the boy. He tried to return its gaze—maybe it knew a way out of this place—but the brightness hurt his eyes.
He stared at his bare knees, bare shins, bare feet. Skinny legs and arms like on a stick figure. He spread out his hands. Even with his fingers stretched as far apart as they could go, they were still small.
This didn’t make sense. Boys weren’t supposed to be left alone on scary beaches, were they?
Maybe there was a clue on him. He patted his pockets and felt nothing but dug his fingers inside to be sure. There was something. Something soft. He pulled it out and held it up.
A small piece of fabric, about three inches square, with fraying edges. It was bluish gray in color, although it looked stained and worn. And it had some fading markings, but the boy couldn’t tell what they were.
He sighed. The square didn’t have any answers. He stuffed it back in his pocket.
The label on his shorts was too faded to tell him anything, so he pulled off his T-shirt. This label had the words DUDE DUDS and YM 10–12. The boy scrunched up his nose. He felt sure he had a name but hoped it wasn’t “Dude Duds.” 10–12 might be his age, though. His stomach tingled, like it knew he was right.
He pulled his shirt back over his head and looked for more clues around the beach, anything he might’ve missed. But there was nothing. Just the yellowish-white sand, which looked as though it had once been bright white but needed a good wash; the wall of trees covered in every sort of green, from very light near the edge, where the sun lit up the leaves, to an ominous black-green deep within the branches; and the wide-open ocean that was a thousand different shades of blue, swaying together as though hearing the same silent music.
The beach looked harmless now. But the boy knew different. It was a trickster that was trapping him.
He wouldn’t be fooled, though. He held on to one hope, one small idea that simmered in his heart—he didn’t belong here. He couldn’t remember where he’d got his clothes, but he couldn’t have gotten them on this empty beach. This was the home of the terrible growing birds and who knew what else. He’d heard that HIISSSS and he’d felt the ground shake. Something else was in the Green Wall too. Something even more terrifying. He could see it in his mind—a beast like a giant bear with the head of a wolf, teeth sharp enough to tear apart a tree and a mouth big enough to devour a small boy.
The boy shivered. Yes, this was their home. Not his. He must have a different home, filled with clothes and toys and food and . . .
His stomach grumbled at the thought of food, and the boy sat up straighter. He hadn’t eaten since he’d woken up, and boys were supposed to eat and drink, weren’t they? He hadn’t wanted anything before, but he had been busy trying to figure out where he was. Now that he thought of food, a craving crashed over him, racing from his toes to his mouth.
He pushed himself up to his feet. “I’ll eat,” he told himself. “After that, I’ll be able to remember where my home is.” But where would he get food? His brain gave him the answer: a refrigerator.
The boy’s eyes widened as a blast of cold mist rushed at his face, stifling his breath. When the frozen air cleared, a large open box stood in front of him, illuminating shelves covered with food: a turkey sandwich wrapped in plastic; a half-eaten bowl of Jell-O; bottles of ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise; a pizza box; bags of broccoli and spinach; and, in a glass case, a cake with strawberry icing. On each side of him were open doors stacked with more shelves that offered milk, juice, Cadbury Fruit & Nut bars, cheese, and butter.
Everything looked delicious and the boy wanted to devour it all, except the vegetables. “Yuck!” But how could he? Was it real?
He touched the bowls and bottles. They were solid.
“How did this get here?”
He reached for a Cadbury bar first, but when he grazed the door’s shelf, something white fluttered at the edge of his sight—something on the other side of the door. Was it more food? A clue? Vowing to eat the chocolate and cake as soon as he’d finished investigating, the boy pulled the doors shut.
The brushed silver on the outside of the refrigerator reflected his darker outline, and he stroked the spot where his face would be. He wished he could see himself properly, but the image was too blurry.
His reflection was broken up by other things: a palm tree magnet with the words MY HEART WAS LOST IN THE BRITISH VIRGIN ISLANDS, a magnetized clip holding a card for Great Smiles Dentistry with 1/9 2:15 p.m. scrawled on it, a magnetic zombie with its arms and legs floating around its body, and in the middle, four shiny round magnets holding up the corners of a drawing of a knight on a horse outside a big castle. The knight had a blue cape flowing from his shoulders, and he pointed a long sword up to the sky.
“What’s this?”
A tightness in the boy’s chest made him think they were familiar, but he couldn’t be sure. He liked the picture of the knight, though. He looked strong and powerful, confident that he could win any battle he faced. The boy plucked the picture off the refrigerator, his fingertips outlining the shape of the knight’s helmet and sword. Smiling, he reached for the handle of the door, ready to eat, but his fingers clasped around air. His smile melted.
The refrigerator and picture had disappeared, and the boy wasn’t sure what he missed more—the food or the knight.
A grumble echoed in his belly, and he muttered, “I know. I know.” He pressed on his stomach to shut off its complaining.
Where did the fridge come from? Was it magic? He shook his head. That was silly. Magic was only in stories. Maybe he’d remembered it and imagined that it was here. Yes, that must be it. Just a memory that somehow came to life for a few seconds—a memory that wanted to tease him.
But if the refrigerator was a memory, then it must’ve come from his home, his real home. The boy’s heart lifted. He was right, he did have a home somewhere else.
If he could only find it.
He collapsed into a pile on the sand. Nerves stabbed at his fingers and toes as he thought about what searching for his home would mean. The beach looked normal now, but he remembered how the rocks had tried to pierce him when he ran away from the birds. How the Green Wall had reached for him when he got close. How the water had tugged, tugged, tugged at him to go in. He’d have to leave the beach if he was going to find his home, but how could he?
“Once upon a time, there was a boy who was lost.” The words crawled over the boy’s lips, slipping past his despair. “The brave king of the land sent out a thousand knights to search every corner of the world. They searched the cities and the forests, the oceans and the beaches. Until they saw him, all alone. And they took him home.”
He pressed his mouth into a thin line, an almost-smile grasping at hope. Yes, that was it. Someone would find him. Like the knight in the picture, someone brave and strong who could help him get home. He just had to wait.
“Chicken.”
The boy jumped up. Whirled around.
“Who said that?” His voice was timid. He scanned the coast and peered into the thick trees.
Nothing.
Nobody.
He frowned. Had he imagined it? He dropped back onto his butt, digging his toes in the sand.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
The boy jumped up again. “Who said that?” He turned in every direction, strained his neck to see as far away as possible. But the voice wasn’t coming from far away—it was right next to his ear.
“You’re too chicken to find your way home.”
The voice was so close, it could probably hear the boy’s pounding heart. He tried to slow it.
“Who . . . said . . . that?” The boy eyed the shadows of the trees. Maybe the voice was from the terrible birds, hiding behind a thick trunk. If a shadow moved, the boy could run.
“I did.”
A brisk breeze blew up and branches rattled. A bird flew out, but it was small and darted away.
The boy crouched down and felt for a stone or something to throw. But his fingers found only sand. He filled his fist with the grains.
“Come out,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “Come OUT!” He threw the sand into the Green Wall. The grains fell through the branches—tink, tink, tink—onto the ground.
Nothing came. Nothing moved.
Leaves rattled in the wind. Clouds darkened overhead.
“If you’re looking for me, you’re way off.”
Was it coming from behind him? The boy twisted on his heel.
“Where are you?” His hands thumped his sides.
“Here.”
“Where?”
“I’m in here.”
“In where?”
“In here.”
His breath faltered.
“You’re in . . . in my head?”
“Bingo. Gold star for the slowpoke.”
The boy gritted his teeth. The air calmed and the sun came back out, but it didn’t brighten his mood. He dropped onto the sand.
“What are you doing in my head?”
“Whatever I want.”
“How did you get in there?”
“The usual way.”
The boy crossed his arms. The voice was a bully that wasn’t playing fair.
“Tell me how you know I won’t get home.”
“You’re a scaredy-cat.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. I know you, and you won’t leave this beach.”
“You don’t know me. You just got here.”
The voice laughed. “I’m always here.”
Pouting, the boy tried to remember the voice from before, but he couldn’t. He shook his head. If he couldn’t even remember his own home, it wasn’t a surprise that he couldn’t remember a voice in his head. Maybe the voice was right, even if it was a bully.
But if the bully knew him . . .
“Who am I then?”
“I’m not telling.”
“Why not?”
“That wouldn’t be any fun.”
The boy narrowed his eyes. “If you’re in my head, then you don’t know anything more than I do, do you?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
“Then what good are you?”
“Ha-ha.” The bully’s voice sounded sinister. “I’m no good at all.”
The boy groaned and flopped onto his back. His only company was a voice in his head—and it was mean.