The racing, squiggly red lines seemed so familiar, even though it was only the second time I had journeyed with the Ring. They trailed the circle as it fell, seeming to devour the hotel room around us and replace it with demented, dancing lines on top of blackness. I followed the path of the falling Ring, and when it hit the ground, I stared at the circle of carpet, wanting to catch the moment of transformation.

Dizziness and nausea attacked me, but I focused on the ground. There was a flash of red across the carpet, like a flashlight shone through a red bed sheet. Then it faded into a bright light, the red quickly replaced by blinding whiteness. I expected the white to fade as well, remembering the time we went from the riverside to the yard outside of Tanaka's house, and seeing the green grass at my feet.

But the whiteness stayed, and the Bender Ring began to ascend, this time reversing its earlier course, devouring the disappearing red lines in its path, and leaving a trail of reality in its wake. Then it hit me. Of course. The whiteness.

How many movies about Santa did I have to see to remember that the North Pole would be nothing but ice and snow? As the Ring moved upward, past my knees, past my waist, past my chest, there was nothing but blinding whiteness, glaring—the pure absence of color in all directions. Cold air washed through my clothes, a wetness in it that was like small needles prickling against my skin.

Squinting my eyes to shield the glare, I looked up. It was finished, and Hood was once again grasping the Ring with both hands above us. He pulled it over and down and let it fall to rest by his side. He pointed to our right.

I looked over, and willed my eyes to hurry and adjust to the surrounding light. The sky here was not dark like where we had come from, and the sun beat down upon the snowy landscape with unforgiving brilliance. Through the eyelash veil of my squinting eyes, I could just make out a vertical object packed into the snow, and walked over to it.

It was a thick, red post, with a white line spiraling down its length, just like a candy cane. A square sign was attached about halfway down, with several languages written on it in faded gold stamping. I scanned it for something recognizable, and found some English. It was so simple it sent shivers down my spine.

THE NORTH POLE

Known to some people, particularly certain god-like people from another world, as The Northless Point.

Hood acted like he wanted to tell me something, but seeing as we were in a sea of white, and his finger only talked in one color, he shrugged his shoulders and gave up.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “If I'm in there for fifty-six minutes, you'll get awfully cold. I know that robe is thick, but …”

He wagged his hand in the air, indicating it was nothing for me to worry about.

“If I'm not back in that amount of time, you might as well head back without me, okay? I guess your clue will be when the Ripping closes, right? Promise me you'll head back then.”

Hood nodded. I had expected him to resist at least a little bit, but then remembered that the Shield was probably protecting me from the cold already, and that Hood was maybe already approaching the point of misery. I hoped he could handle an hour.

“Well,” I said, “If you get too cold, head back for a while and then come back.”

I looked around, and there was nothing but the same in all directions, from where we stood to the distant horizons. Flat, white land. No fat guys in red pajamas, no bustling toy workshops, no elves. A few years earlier I would've been devastated.

I looked at my watch. The Ripping was supposed to open in less than five minutes. Since my conversation with Hood was as wordless as a tongueless mute drifting in space, my mind wandered.

There was so much confusion, so much fear, so much pain. The turmoil of putting my dad's life above my duty to save the world from the Stompers gnawed at me, and I had the sickening feeling that I'd made an irreversible mistake. What good was Dad's life if it was spent in a world full of literal nightmares?

Somehow I had to right things. Who cared that I had technically given my word to the monster named Custer Bleak? A deal with the devil is never valid. Somehow, some-way, I would figure out a way to keep the Red Disk out of Raspy's hands, and still save my dad. My decision on that matter was made, and I felt a lot better.

Of course, it was funny that I didn't even know the first thing about the Red Disk or why Raspy wanted it so badly. But the fact alone that he wanted it was enough to tell me it must be rooted in evil. Or that it was so important to our cause that he merely wanted to prevent me from having it.

Once again, I got fed up with my thoughts, and I pushed them away. Thinking too much could be really depressing sometimes. The Ripping of the Black Curtain saved me from any further mopey contemplating.

Later, when I thought back on the moment when the ripping, crackling sound first trickled through the frosty air, right on time, I realized that I never really doubted it would happen, not once.

Even as the blacker than black ink spot tore open in front of me, I reached down and set my stopwatch to 56:00, set to count down backward.

With a sense of bravery that somewhat surprised me, I waved to Hood, pushed the start button on my watch, and stepped into the Blackness.

I was about to experience the longest “just-a-hair-short-ofan-hour” in my life.