by William B. Wolfe
In his career as a sometimes-serious journalist, William Wolfe loved writing the occasional weird story that was tossed his way. Robots, ghosts, Bigfoot, space aliens—nothing was too strange. Now he writes middle-grade fiction, which generally wanders into weirdness, too, with stories of psychic pets, haunted libraries, and modernistic fairies. William grew up near Monkey’s Eyebrow, Kentucky, (weird) and now lives in Louisville, Kentucky, with his weird-but-lovable family and weird ninja attack cat, Miyabi. He is an award-winning member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators, loves science fiction, fantasy, and superheroes, and has a little blue car named Pepe. Learn more about him at www.facebook.com/wolfetales
Dottie poked her head out of her brother’s room, scanning the darkened hallway for any sign of Mom and Dad. They had an uncanny ability to be “just wandering by” whenever Dottie was about to do anything the least little bit naughty.
And what she had planned that evening wasn’t the least bit little.
Dottie stepped back, tugging the door closed.
“All clear,” she announced.
“Are you sure, Dot?” asked her brother Arthur, who sat on his narrow bed in the center of his small, tidy room. “If we get caught, we’ll both be in big trouble.”
Arthur was home now for his spring visit—one of only four times a year Dottie got to see her favorite brother—though to tell the truth, the competition for favorite wasn’t all that keen.
At 15, Arthur was just three years older than Dottie. They shared the same unruly red hair and striking green eyes, as well as a stubborn streak that frequently landed them in trouble with their parents and three older brothers.
More importantly, Arthur was the only one who treated her like an equal. He was the only person, besides her dad, Dottie allowed to call her Dot—which to her was the same as labeling her an insignificant spec.
“Relax. I was careful,” Dottie said. “Besides, if anyone comes in, we have our story ready. Do you remember?”
Arthur spoke in a learned-by-rote monotone: “Dottie is just leafing through the book, looking at the pictures, while I tell the stories.”
“You’ve got to lie like you mean it,” Dottie chided.
A single candle lit Arthur’s room, but that was enough to show his frown. “If they ever find out that I taught you to read—”
“They won’t,” Dottie declared. “Now gimme.”
Arthur reached under his pillow, pulled out an ancient-looking book, and held it out to Dottie. She treated it gently, as if its pages were butterfly wings that might crumble into dust—which could indeed happen to some of the volumes he had brought home from the Branch.
The front cover of this book showed a spectacle-wearing, red-maned lion, tail between his legs. Above him, in red and green letters, were the words “The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.” The back cover portrayed three characters: a strawman, like the one her father sometimes placed in the fields to ward off crows; a girl with loosely tied pigtails not unlike Dottie’s; and—it couldn’t be—a bot. The most dangerous of all the Old Tech devices.
Bots, like all the Old Tech devices, were outlawed. Learning about bots was forbidden. Even talking about them was risky, except in warnings to children. “Behave and do your chores, or the bots will come to get you.”
Part of Dottie wanted to hurl the book out the window. But the thrill of holding something so forbidden—so dangerous—was impossible to resist.
“Where did you get this?” she asked in a whisper. “How did you get this? Why did you get this?”
Arthur smiled. “I know what you’re thinking. But that’s not a bot on the cover—just a human who replaced all of his parts with ones made from tin.”
Dottie scrunched up her nose. “I don’t see how that could work, even with Old Tech.”
“It’s not about technology, just magic and make-believe. That’s why it’s not forbidden. We’re all encouraged to read it at the Branch as a cautionary tale—a warning, in other words.”
“What’s this non-forbidden book about?” Dottie asked.
Arthur paused.
“It’s about a girl who leaves home and enters a new world of strange people, different ways of living, and danger. At the Branch, they say the moral of the story is that we should follow all the customs, obey all the rules. And that there’s nothing better in the whole world than what we have at home.”
Something in her brother’s voice hinted that he wasn’t telling Dottie everything.
“What do you think this book is about?” she asked.
Arthur’s eyes shifted left to right, as if he expected that someone might be hiding in the shadows of his room.
“I would never dispute the teachings of the Branch,” he said in a voice louder than necessary. “But I believe each person finds his or her own meaning in every book. Read it and decide for yourself.”
“But—”
“It’s late,” Arthur said flopping back on his bed and rolling over, his face away from his sister. “Blow out the candle when you’re done.”
Sleep for Dottie came much later, after the little girl from Kansas had tapped the heels of her magic shoes together three times and returned to her dull, dirt-farming home in Kansas.
Even in her dreams, Oz and its characters remained with her, filling Dottie’s mind with visions of a dark forest, misshapen winged monkeys, and a wart-nosed witch who was angry that Dottie carried a book.
“Prohibited,” the witch screeched, pointing a crooked finger in Dottie’s face. “Illegal! You and your book shall burn!”
With a wave of her gnarled hand, the witch conjured a blistering ball of red and yellow fire and sent it hurtling.
Dottie dove to the ground, expecting to be consumed by flame. Instead, the witch only called her name.
“Dottie, get up.”
“No! You’ll kill me!”
“Stop this nonsense, Dottie Ray, and get up.”
Dottie rubbed open her sleepy eyes and found not the wicked witch but her mom—not wicked, but also not happy.
“You should have been up an hour ago. These floors are not going to sweep themselves, and you can’t wish the dishes clean. You’ll have a house of your own to keep before long, so you’d better get used to cleaning and cooking and tending to babies,” her mother said.
“I don’t want babies. I want adventures,” Dottie said, sitting up in her bed.
“You’ve been listening to Arthur’s foolish stories,” her mother said. “There’s plenty of adventure to be had right here in Proper.”
Proper was Dottie’s hometown—if it could even be called a town. It included the local farms and the township, with its general store, ironsmith, grain mill, livery and post office. But not, of course, any places where people could drink sweetmix or dance. Those things just wouldn’t be Proper, her parents said, and especially not for a Proper young lady. But Dottie didn’t think an occasional dance would be so bad, or a sip of sweetmix—not that her parents had ever let her try either one.
“There are plenty of girls who want dozens of children. I don’t even want to think about things like that!”
“You need to think about them,” her mother said. “In two months, you’ll turn 13. That means betrothal. Then 14. That brings marriage. Then 15 and, hopefully, your first blessing!”
“A blessing that cries all the time, burps up milk, and poops its diaper,” Dottie said, frowning. “That’s not the life I want.”
“You’ve been saying that since you were ten. But this is your life,” her mom said. “And mine. Like it was for my mother, and her mother before that. Some things don’t change.”
“I’m going to make things change,” Dottie said, her arms crossed and her face set like stone.
“Good,” her mother said. “You can start by changing the sheets on all the beds. Then you grab a broom and change the floors from dirty to clean.”
Dottie helped Arthur pack for his return to the Branch the next day. As he tucked in the last item—the Oz book—she slipped over to his door, clicked it shut, and turned pleading eyes to her brother.
“Let me go with you!” she said.
Arthur’s face fell. “We’ve talked about this before.”
“And you always say the same thing. ‘Only boys can go to the Branch.’ So, I’ll dress like a boy.”
“That only works in books,” Arthur said. “There’s not a lot of privacy there with bathrooms and such. No way a girl could pass herself off for even a day. You’re better off here with the family.”
Misery filled Dottie’s face and her voice. “If you really believe that, why did you even teach me to read?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because of your nonstop begging and wheedling,” Arthur said with a half-smile. “Maybe because I thought it would be a respite from the drudgery that is Proper. But I wonder now whether I just made your life harder. Maybe you should forget all about reading—forget even how to read.”
Dottie grabbed her brother’s arm and squeezed until he winced. “Never—even if I could! Without books, I wouldn’t know that there’s more to life than this drab little story that’s been written for me. I want to float down the Mississippi River like Huckleberry Finn or find a Wonderland like Alice. I’m suffocating here. I’ve got to go where I can breathe!”
Arthur bit his lip, then turned his eyes to his shoes, as if they had suddenly become the most interesting objects in the room.
“Arthur Ray, that’s your guilty look,” Dottie said. “What are you hiding?”
“Nothing,” Arthur said. But his sister knew better. She grasped his face between two hands and pulled it close, forcing him to make eye contact.
“What are you not saying?”
Arthur whispered. “I don’t recommend it, but—”
“But what?” Dottie said, the words catching in her throat.
“There may be a way out. Only if there’s a real emergency.”
Dottie suppressed a squeal. “Tell me!”
“There’s a story about a safe place. Some say it’s just a legend, but I’ve known people who swear they’ve been there. The journey is long and hard, and going there means leaving your home and your family forever.”
“Just tell me,” Dottie insisted. “What is it? How do I get there?”
Arthur frowned. “It’s called the Main, a place of freedom ‘north of north, south of the Ville, guarded by giants, even now still.’”
“What does that mean?” Dottie asked.
“Head north and look for giants, I guess,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “I’ve never been farther than the Branch.”
“Big help, brother.”
“When did I say it would be easy?” Arthur said. “It might be better if you just stay here and try to be normal.”
“I don’t want to be normal,” Dottie said. “I want to be me.”
“In this world,” Arthur said, “that will always be dangerous.”
Weeks passed in endless repetition for Dottie: Sweeping and mopping. Scrubbing pots and pans. Sewing ripped clothing and knitting winter wear. Nothing in her boring life seemed to constitute an emergency. Until it did.
One morning Mom called Dottie to the kitchen, where her father was already seated at the table, a cup of NewCof in his hand. He smiled broadly.
“My little Dot, I’ve got good news for you!”
Dottie looked at her mother. She was smiling, too. This couldn’t be good.
“Sweetie, we know that you’re not happy here on the farm,” Dad said.
Guilt stabbed at Dottie, and she opened her mouth to apologize. Before she could speak, her mother shushed her with a touch to her lips.
“Country life is not for everyone,” Mom said. “That’s why we’ve been trying to find something different for you. Something better.”
Dottie’s heart leapt, and she spoke without thinking. “You’re sending me to the Branch?”
Mom’s face went ashen. Dad frowned.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “That’s only for boys not strong enough to do real work. I told you this would be good news, and it is. You know Zeb Hugson, don’t you?”
“The farrier?” Dottie said. “I don’t know anything about him, other than that he shoes horses and always seems to smell a lot like a horse himself.”
“He’s a fine Proper man,” Mom said. “He makes a very good living, and he lives in town in a nice house. He’s perfect!”
“Perfect for what?” Dottie asked, genuinely puzzled.
“Why, perfect for you!” Dad said with a grin. “It’s all arranged. You’ll be officially betrothed the day of your 13th birthday. Zeb has even agreed to cut short the engagement period. Six months after your birthday will come your wedding day!”
“This can’t be,” Dottie said, clutching her hands against her stomach and feeling as if something terrible was inside her, trying to gnaw its way out.
“You’ll have hired help for the cooking and cleaning, and you can get started on your first blessing right away,” Dad said. “You won’t have to stop at five like your mom and me. You can have ten or twelve children—maybe even more!”
“But I don’t want to get married—not to Zeb or anyone else!” Dottie wailed.
“Hush, child,” Mom said. “You don’t want to wind up like Muckrake Molly.”
Dottie shivered. Every girl knew about the tale of the muckraker, who rebelled against her betrothal and disappeared into the wilderness that surrounded the township. When she returned years later, thin and ragged and begging for forgiveness, she was accepted back into Proper—but only as a muckraker, the person who sweeps manure from the barns.
Dottie had seen Molly at Zeb Hugson’s. The strange woman never spoke, but whenever her eyes met Dottie’s, they fixed on her with an intensity that Dottie found alarming. Dottie didn’t want to be a muckraker, but she didn’t want to marry Zeb Hugson, either.
“I can’t do what you ask. I won’t!” Dottie wailed. “I refuse!”
Her father’s eyes flared. “That is not Proper,” he said, aiming at Dottie with a finger which, at that moment, looked a lot like the one on the wicked witch of her nightmare. “It has been arranged. You will marry Zeb Hugson.”
“I’d rather die,” Dottie said. She turned and ran from the kitchen to her room, latching her door behind her.
Dottie knew that Mom and Dad could have forced their way in, but they didn’t, and for that, she was grateful. But she wouldn’t open the door even when her father told her in a kind voice that evening that he wanted only what was best for her.
“When you come to your senses, come out. We’ll fix you a nice dinner and forget this little disagreement ever happened,” he said. “But until then, your meals must wait.”
Dottie never considered accepting Dad’s offer. She did, however, think a lot about what Arthur had said: “There may be a way out. Only if there’s a real emergency.”
“If this isn’t an emergency,” Dottie said to herself, “I’ll never see one.” She had no choice. Tonight, she would escape!
She packed a shoulder-slung bag with a change of clothes and a blanket, then waited until the house was still, when even the crickets that should be serenading outside her open window seemed oddly quiet. Dottie slipped one leg through her window then hesitated. This wasn’t an adventure from a book. This was real. This was final. This was goodbye forever.
She could put away her escape kit, apologize to her parents in the morning and… lose herself forever. A fierceness she had never known possessed Dottie, and she practically hurled herself from the window’s opening, landing lightly on her feet a few feet down.
The milky light of a quarter moon was just bright enough for Dottie to see her way through the yard and to the dirt path that led away from her house. Glancing back where her parents and three of her brothers lay sleeping, she choked down a sob.
“Goodbye, Mom. Goodbye, Dad,” she whispered, curling her hand in a wave. “I’m sorry.”
Just then, Dottie thought she saw a flash of movement beside the house. Her heart skipped a beat, and her legs felt weak. Was her journey over before it even began? She waited for what seemed an eternity, but there was no further sign of activity.
Dottie breathed a sigh of relief. Probably just an owl or raccoon. It was time to go.
After a two-mile walk down a series of paths, Dottie reached North Highway 61. She didn’t know why people called it a highway, since it was no higher than the surrounding ground. But it was still the easiest, fastest way to travel.
The highway had once stretched smooth and unbroken for hundreds of miles, Dottie had been told. But that was long ago, before the War. Now the road was cracked and smothered with weeds.
Dottie traveled for hours, walking what seemed to her feet to have been at least a hundred miles. Her mind argued that she could not have walked more than ten miles, but her feet were unconvinced.
She stepped off the highway, set down her bag, leaned against a tall oak tree, and let her heavy eyelids fall shut, for just…a…little….
“Excuse me!”
Dottie’s head snapped up, and her pulse raced. Where was her bed? Where was her house? Where was she?!
“Are you OK?”
Dottie jumped to her feet, almost fell, and grabbed the tree to steady herself. Then she remembered. She was running away, and she had foolishly let herself be spotted.
At the edge of the highway stood a figure—a man, certainly, since no Proper woman would be out alone at night. Dottie couldn’t see his face, which was hidden by a dark cowl, but she imagined a look of concern, because that was clearly in his voice.
“I—I’m fine,” Dottie said. “I was just resting my eyes.”
“Indeed. And maybe some other parts, too,” the man said, and Dottie didn’t like the note of amusement she heard. Worse, he sounded more like a boy than a grown man—more tenor than bass.
“Do you make a habit of rousing sleeping strangers?”
“I was just worried about you. What are you doing out here in the middle of the night and the middle of nowhere?”
“I should ask you the same thing, young man,” Dottie said.
The hooded figure shrugged. “Just passing through.”
“Well, me too. Just passing through,” Dottie said.
“Great. Maybe we can pass through together.”
“I don’t need your help,” Dottie said.
“Obviously,” the stranger said. “But we could talk and keep each other company. Besides, I was just preparing to have a snack. Would you join me?”
Without waiting for a reply, he reached into the bag tied at his waist, bringing out a wedge of yellow cheese and a curved knife. He sliced off a section for himself and slipped it into his mouth.
Dottie’s stomach grumbled. Well, perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to travel a few miles with this stranger. She picked up her bag and stepped toward the boy. He lowered his head, keeping his face hidden beneath the cowl.
Very odd. But maybe he had a disfigurement he wanted to keep hidden. And that was fine. Dottie wasn’t looking for a husband or even a friend. All she wanted was a slice of that cheese.
“What should I call you?” the stranger asked, cutting off a generous portion of the wedge and handing it over.
“Darlene,” she said, using a fake name she had already picked out. “What’s yours?
“You can call me Poe,” he said.
“That’s an odd name,” Dottie said.
“I had another name once. This is the one I use now,” Poe said.
Dottie tried to take dainty bites of her cheese, but gobbled up most of her portion in less than a minute. A noise escaped Poe’s hood that sounded a lot like a chuckle.
“Sorry,” she said. “My last meal was a long time ago.”
“Don’t apologize, Darlene,” Poe said. “I’ve been there myself. Now let’s see what there is in here to drink. Aha!” He pulled a slender bottle from his bag and tucked on its cork, which relinquished its hold on the bottle with a satisfying pop.
Dottie reached for the bottle, then drew back.
“What’s in there?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.
“Nothing dangerous,” Poe said. He tilted the bottle upward to his lips, and after an audible glug and swallow, held the container out again.
This time, Dottie didn’t hesitate. She lifted the bottle to her mouth, turned it up, and let the drink inside flow onto her tongue. And it was amazing! Sweet like molasses, but with a sharp, refreshing edge. She took another gulp, and would have taken a third if Poe hadn’t pulled the container away.
“Easy there,” he said. “That’s the only bottle we’ve got. You act like you’ve never tasted sweetmix before.”
“I haven’t,” Dottie admitted. “It’s prohibited in Proper.”
“Well, we’re not in Proper anymore,” Poe said. “But if we want to put some more miles behind us tonight, we should get moving. Are you ready?”
Surprisingly, Dottie found that she was ready—ready to walk a thousand miles, if that’s what it took to find freedom.
For the next few days Dottie and Poe traveled in the dark and slept shielded among the trees that lined the road during the light. The few times they saw approaching lanterns at night, they hid until the strangers passed. Poe proved skilled at living off the land, finding edible berries and wild fruit trees. He never asked Dottie why she was running away, and she never questioned him. Nor did she look at his face, which he always kept buried in the shadows of the cowl. Whatever his secrets, they were his to share or not share, she decided.
After their fourth night of travel, Dottie got ready for bed. “Good day,” she told Poe—their joking ritual, since their bedtime began at dawn, not night.
Poe, already half asleep, stirred slightly and murmured, “Good day, Dottie.”
Dottie froze. She had claimed her named was Darlene, and that was the name Poe had used—until now. Had she slipped up somewhere and given away her true name? No! She was certain. Then what kind of a game was Poe playing? Was he leading her into a trap, so she could be captured and returned home? If he was, in fact, hideously disfigured and unable to find a wife, maybe he hoped to keep her for himself. But none of that explained how Poe knew of her disappearance only hours after she had left Proper.
Whatever his plan, Dottie would have no part of it. She waited until Poe’s breathing had settled into the slow rhythm of slumber, then she rose and crept away. She wanted to take his satchel for whatever food might remain, but it was still tied to the mystery man’s waist. She would have to do without.
Dottie trudged up the highway through the day. “Step, step, step, step,” she repeated, losing herself in the rhythm of the words.
Maybe she began sleepwalking, or maybe she fell into a trance, but Dottie was suddenly jolted into consciousness by the whinny of a horse and a jumble of voices.
Her eyes rose to find a family of travelers riding in a horse-drawn wagon yards ahead. The man kept a long beard and was dressed all in black, including a wide-brimmed hat. The mother wore a long blue dress, not unlike one Dottie’s mother had at home, with her hair pinned up under a simple white bonnet. The five children looked like miniature versions of their father and mother—minus the beard.
They were Amish—the only people whose lives had remained unchanged by the War
The father stared at Dottie through suspicious eyes. “Why be thee out alone, child?”
“Oh, my parents are near,” Dottie lied. “I think I hear them calling now.” With that, she turned and bounded from the road, out into the surrounding knobby hills. The family called after her but made no effort to pursue, and Dottie hid until she heard wagon pulling away, and the clip-clop of their horse faded in the distance.
It wasn’t until then that she realized how very, very thirsty she was. Dottie’s mouth felt as dry as straw, her tongue like dried jerky. Poe had always just seemed to know where to find a clean stream to drink from, but Dottie had only a vague idea where to even look.
She needed to make her way down to lower ground, she figured, and maybe scout for animal tracks or listen for flowing water. But there were no animal tracks—only bramble briars and bugs. Soon she was covered with scratches and bug bites, but with nothing to show for it. Plus, she was so very tired, the sun was straight overhead, and her thirst was turning from uncomfortable to desperate.
Dottie finally came to a long, rocky slope, strewn with precariously perched boulders. Below, she saw a glimmer of light in a wooded area. That must be the sun reflecting on water! She could almost taste it, cool and sweet, from a pure, gurgling stream.
Abandoning caution, Dottie sprinted down the hills until, almost safe at the bottom, she stumbled, falling like a tree at a lumberjack’s axe. She rolled all the way down over painful, pointy rocks.
Finally coming to a stop at the edge of a thicket, Dottie took in a shuddering breath and did a quick self-inventory. She could move her arms and legs, so that was good. Her right ankle throbbed, but not intolerably.
Then she noticed the bushes growing around her. They were thick with large purple berries—huckleberries, just like the ones her mom made pies with.
“Food,” Dottie thought, crawling forward and grabbing handfuls of the berries and stuffing them into her mouth. Tart but still tasty, they filled her stomach, and their juice quenched her thirst. But her feast came to an abrupt halt when she pulled back a dense growth of vines to discover a steel boot. Attached to a steel leg. Which led to a metallic torso and head.
Cold, glass eyes stared down at her. The eyes of a bot!
Too scared even to scream, Dottie sprang up—then collapsed at the pain. Her ankle was worse than she had thought.
The bot made no reaction.
It’s dead. Or at least deactivated, Dottie thought, feeling a little silly for her reaction. The bot had to be ancient, and it didn’t look like the weaponized monster she had always imagined. In fact, it looked very human, except where its paint had weathered away, leaving bare metal. That, she realized, was what had reflected the light she had seen. Probably just an abandoned, dilapidated servant bot.
Still, Dottie had a terrible problem. If she couldn’t walk, she couldn’t get to the Main. She was going to sit out here until she someone found her and dragged her home—or until she died of exposure. She wasn’t sure which fate would be worse.
Dottie spoke to the bot as if he could hear. “I could use a friend, like the tin woodman, but I don’t dare activate you.”
Dottie would never know if it was the word “activate” or just the sound of a human voice, but the eyes of the bot suddenly flashed with light, and a metal hand shot forward and gripped her arm.
This time, Dottie did scream—long and loud. The bot turned its eyes to her.
“Identity,” it demanded.
“Dottie,” she said, trembling. “Dottie Ray.”
“Unrecognized,” the bot replied. “Pass code.”
Pass code? What could that be? “The War is over,” she said.
“Incorrect,” the bot said. “Please provide the correct pass code.”
“Um…Victory to the bots?”
“Incorrect. You have one more chance to provide the correct pass code before termination.”
Termination? That ruled out the friendly helper bot idea. But maybe she could get through this the way she got through so much of life—with guts and bluster
“I am Commander Dottie Ray. Robot, your memory is damaged. Cancel termination and release me,” she ordered.
Maybe the bot really had been damaged, because it seemed to relax its grip for a moment—and that was all the time Dottie needed. She yanked free and scrambled backwards, ignoring the pain from her injured ankle as she struggled up the hill on hands and knees.
The bot lurched into action and took slow, lumbering steps forward. Metal screeched against metal, and Dottie noticed that the robot was dragging one leg. Fair enough, she figured. Maybe they could compete together in the one-legged sack race at the county fair.
Halfway up the hill, Dottie had gained a fifteen-yard lead, but she was afraid that wouldn’t last. While the bot felt no pain, each time she put weight on her right foot, it felt as though someone was smashing it with a hammer. Soon she would collapse with fatigue, and the bot would be on her. Unless…
Dottie neared one of the boulders she had passed on the way down the hill. Dragging herself behind it, she waved at the bot and, using skills honed from years of practice against her brothers, hurled insults at her pursuer.
“You’re pathetic. I’m just a little girl, and I can crawl faster than you can run,” she shouted. “Better run away, Mr. Scary Bot, or I’ll beat you into pots and pans for my mom.”
The bot fixed Dottie with a steady gaze. And it could have been her imagination, but the machine seemed to gain a little speed and intensity with her taunts—and that was good. Dottie wanted him to be going full blast.
Seating herself squarely behind the boulder, Dottie waited as the bot moved closer and closer. Finally, when she saw the glow of its mechanical eyes, she raised her legs, placed her feet against the huge rock and pushed.
Nothing happened. The bot took a step closer. Dottie pushed again. The bolder quivered. Dottie gave one final, agonizing push, and the boulder began tumbling. The bot tried to change direction but was unable to halt its momentum. The rock struck it with the force of a herd of rampaging bulls, rolled onward into the mulberries, leaving a flattened junk heap behind.
Dottie sighed heavily and fell onto her back—just in time to see a face, darkened by a hood, peering down. Poe! He had caught up with her after all. Her flight and her fight had all been for nothing.
“Nice job, girl,” Poe said. Even in the hood, Dottie could see white teeth grinning broadly.
“Guess you’ve got me,” Dottie said, making no effort to hide the bitterness in her voice. “What are you going to do to me?”
“I’m not going to do anything to you,” Poe said. “I’m here to do something for you.”
With that, the hood came down, and Dottie found herself staring not at a callow boy, but a grown woman, her face glowing and her eyes shining with intelligence. It was the muckraker!
“Molly?” Dottie said, unable to trust her eyes. “What do you have to do with any of this? Why would you want to help me?”
Poe/Molly laughed. “Your brother Arthur spoke to me on his way back to the Branch. He thought you might try to leave Proper, and he asked me to watch out for you. When I heard Zeb brag about the arranged marriage, I knew you would make your move soon. I wanted to help you reach the Main.”
“How do you know about the Main?” Dottie asked.
Molly smiled. “I know because I’ve been there. I was once as you are now—a girl willing to risk everything for a better life. Someone else helped me, and I wanted to return that favor to another.”
Poe/Molly looked down at her feet. “But I messed up. I called you by your real name and nearly wrecked everything. Thank goodness, I met those Amish travelers. They told me where to look for you.”
Dottie’s jaw dropped. She felt like she was caught in a cyclone, and her whole world was spinning.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner, but I had to hide my identity,” Poe/Molly continued. “I wasn’t sure you wouldn’t change your mind, return to Proper, and expose me. I may have to return there someday to help another girl.”
“I messed up, too,” Dottie said. “I would never have made it this far without you. Guess the men are right: I’m just an insignificant little dot.”
Poe/Molly’s eyes widened. “Are you serious? You were amazing! The way you escaped me? The way you battled and beat a bot? You were so smart and brave. And you showed great heart.”
Dottie smiled. Poe continued.
“No one should ever call you a dot again. In fact, you’ll get a new name at the Main. You can pick one from any of the greatest writers in history! That reminds me, I’ll have to introduce you to the real Poe—well, to his books, anyway.”
“How far away are we?” Dottie asked.
“Just another day’s walk. Maybe two, with the way you’re hobbled up.”
With the help of a walking stick that Poe fashioned from an oak branch, Dottie left the next morning, walking at almost normal speed. They came to a spot where Highway 61 North disappeared—turned to rubble in the war, Poe said. Ahead lay only unmarked dirt paths.
“North of North,” Dottie mumbled. “Why don’t you just tell me these things?”
“I enjoy watching your eyes light up when you understand,” Poe said.
They came to a sign. “LOUISVILLE 5 miles.”
“That’s it! The Ville! But where is the Main?”
“Patience,” was all that Poe would say.
They approached the remains of what must once have been a great city. Little remained in the distance except the steel skeletons of buildings. Forest had reclaimed what had been suburbs. Poe held up a hand.
“I don’t see anything,” Dottie said.
“Exactly,” Poe said.
The two walked to a sheer cliff, covered with vines. Poe stuck two fingers in her mouth and blew out a shrill whistle. Instantly, from somewhere inside vines, two burly men emerged, both holding at the ready long guns like the one used by the Proper sheriff.
They relaxed when they saw Poe. One ran to her and swept her up in a fierce hug. “It’s been too long,” he said. “Edgar’s books are getting dusty.”
“They can wait, Faulkner,” Poe said. “I have a new Reader to add to the community.”
Dottie, too stunned to speak, followed Poe through the vines to find a cave-like opening. “These are the Louisville Caverns,” Poe told her. “Miles of tunnels dug out by miners in the old days. Now they serve a much more important purpose.”
As they entered the main tunnel, Dottie’s eyes widened. Before her were thousands and thousands of books, stacked on tall shelves carved into the tunnel wall.
“Louisville once had great storehouses of books, called ‘libraries.’ Before they were destroyed, people who loved to read carried every book to these caverns where they have been preserved ever since.”
“And the giants?” Dottie asked.
“Are the people you see around you, devoting their lives to saving this repository of knowledge.”
Poe gestured at a metal plaque overhead. “Louisville Free Public Library – Main.”
Dottie started to cry.
“Are you disappointed? Do you want to go home?” Poe teased.
“This is home, now and forever,” Dottie whispered. “And you know what they say.”
“What’s that, Dottie?”
Clicking the heels of her shoes together three times, Dottie looked at Poe with misty eyes. “There’s no place,” she said, “like home.”