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Twig wandered aimlessly, pausing near the Hill gates. Nearby was an ancient statue of Arbutus Yardbuilder, the founder of the Hill and its most famous figure. The statue depicted him holding sheets of paper, with one hand pointing, as if giving directions.

Twig stared at the statue. “Tell me where I should go, what I should be,” he murmured.

Reluctantly, he started for home.

Tomorrow I will probably be yelled at by Professor Burdock, he thought to himself. And then forced out of the Guild Master Classes. And then I’ll become an Errand Runner . . . an outcast.

He looked up at the tall trees and thick understory that surrounded him. It was a bit scary, but also mysterious and inviting. He ventured farther into the Woods.

The drooping leaves hung over Twig like a cloak. He crept past the outskirts of the Hill and then past Beau’s cottage. Beau had created a cozy spot far from the bustle of life on the Hill, at the base of a beech tree.

A thicket of jack-in-the-pulpit and honeysuckle surrounded the front door, which had been salvaged from an old clock. It was decorated with a bright painting of a cuckoo on a glass panel, and a brass knob. For a moment the warmth of Beau’s kitchen beckoned him. He remembered the many evenings the two of them had sat eating muffins and berries by the steamy kitchen window.

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He was tempted to tap on Beau’s door. No doubt Beau would have welcomed him in, pulling out the carved wooden stool, unwrapping a wild cherry biscuit, and putting the kettle on to boil. But Twig was in no mood for conversation.

He wandered on. Eventually all the familiar trees, rock formations, slopes and valleys, fern patches, rotting logs, trickling streams, and shelf fungi disappeared behind him. His heart raced a bit; he didn’t know where he was going, but it felt good to be alone. He quietly scrambled through the thickets and brambles of the Hill, heading east. No one saw him.

He came to a bridge, woven from old leather bootlaces and knotted lengths of baler twine. It had been strung years ago by the Hill’s Master Weavers and suspended high above a ravine. He started across.

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Midway, Twig peered over the swinging rope rails and studied the tangle of debris far below. Tall weeds and tree saplings had sprouted among the rusted carcass of an old machine, and the persistent push of growth had raised up part of it, as though it was throwing up a tree. Scavengers from the Yard had been here; Twig could see parts had been long ago unscrewed or removed.

To one side lay the mostly decayed remains of what Twig figured to be a deer, with bone, hooves, and bits of brown fur hiding beneath a blanket of mayapples. Twig shivered and scrambled to the far side of the bridge.

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Where the bridge ended, a tunnel began. Twig cautiously entered, the dark, hollow space swallowing him.

Inside the tunnel, he tiptoed around pools of collected rainwater, as he followed one curving space to another, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. It was a good way to remain hidden from hawks and owls when traversing over this part of the Hill.

Twig had been in the tunnel while on a day trip with his father, and it had marked the farthest he had ever been from home . . . until now. He remembered the dark curves and turning walls of the tunnels. His father had squeezed Twig’s paw reassuringly as they explored the tunnel together. “We’d better head back,” his father had said when they had reached the end. “Can’t let the Dark Creatures catch us.” And they had turned home. Twig was suddenly overcome with the wish to have his father next to him again.

Emerging from the tunnel, he breathed in the sweet smell of the forest. The edge of his universe spread before him. Now each step forward was one step into new territory, and one step farther from home.

He passed something huge and ancient, the top of it tilted and its thick carved legs splayed and half-buried in the weeds and soil. Years of rain and snow had battered the once-lustrous mahogany to a matted gray. Mosses and lichens had found the perfect home. Black-and-white pieces, swollen and warped and peeling, ran up one side of the top in a pattern. A festoon of pokeweed jutted out from beneath a sagging lid.

Twig stepped lightly and cautiously onto one of the white pieces. It sank beneath him. Somewhere in the bowels of the sodden, three-legged behemoth something moved, and struck a rusting wire. A sadly muffled note filtered through the decaying wood and hung softly in the evening air.

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He stepped again, onto a black piece, and a white one, then another. No sound emerged. The next step made a sound that was loud and strong, startling Twig, and he scampered off into the tall weeds.

He climbed over split and rotting boards, old broken bottles and rusty wires, finally passing through a suspension bridge converted from an old vacuum cleaner hose. There, he came to a small sign, facing the other direction.

Entering the Hill, it read. All visitors report to Authorities.

So, Twig thought. I have reached the edge of the Hill.

He knew he was in new territory when the very smell of the air was unfamiliar. There was a strange new scent. He didn’t recognize it. It was carried on the breeze that caressed his face, luring him on. He had never ventured this far from home. In fact, no one he knew had been this far, not even his father.

The thought sent a shiver through him. Being in this unknown, unfamiliar spot seemed better than the prospect of becoming an Errand Runner.

It felt fine to run away.

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