8.

In summer, Lucy slept with the windows open. Warm air eddied through the screen windows that her father washed with a hose in spring and swapped in for winter’s glass storm windows. The whir of electric fans lulled her.

Her parents sometimes came into her room and watched her, thinking she was asleep. She let them. They talked about her as they stood in the doorway. Clearly, she thought, they believed she slept like the dead; their murmured conversations were lengthy and barely muted.

“She doesn’t have any friends in the neighborhood,” said her mother.

“What about John?”

Her mother snorted. “Her imaginary friend? I’d hardly count him.”

“Lots of kids have imaginary friends, Regina,” said her father.

“At her age? She seems a little old for it.”

Mike shrugged. “Well, she never had one when she was in preschool. Maybe she’s just making up for lost time.”

“Be serious.”

“There’s nothing wrong with her, Reggie,” her father said. “She has an active imagination, that’s all. There’s nothing wrong with that. She eats well, she does well in school, she’s healthy. She’s happy.”

“I’m worried about her, Mike. She’s always reading and running around alone.”

“She runs around with John.”

“Like I said, he hardly counts.”

There was a brief pause. A pause with weight, but a weight that Lucy didn’t recognize.

“He counts just fine,” said Mike finally. “Maybe all the kids in the neighborhood are rats. I’d rather she played with John than some rat kid.”

“This is a nice neighborhood, Mike.”

“It looks nice,” said Mike. “Don’t be fooled, Reg. Every neighborhood has rats. Even nice neighborhoods with lawns and azaleas.”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t fuss over her. She’s fine. Let her be a kid. You worry too much.”

9.

Late in summer on the doggiest of dog days, a thunderstorm had passed. The air was hot and damp, and while the rain had been gone for hours, the world outside steamed and dripped like the upstairs bathroom after a shower. Lucy and John retreated down to the basement and lounged on the old velvet basement sofa with a pile of books.

The sofa was a relic of the early days of Mike and Regina’s marriage, a hand-me-down from Regina’s parents. One of its legs had broken, so Lucy’s father had simply removed all of its legs. It hunkered peacefully on the basement carpet, untroubled by its limitations. In a fit of creative industry, Lucy’s mother had spent weeks making a violently floral slipcover for the basement sofa to cover its balding upholstery. Lucy signaled her disapproval of the change by covering it with piles of books and toys and John.

In the middle of The Horse and His Boy, Lucy realized that John was staring at her. “What are you staring at, you weirdo?” she said, poking him with her foot.

He frowned. He snapped his book shut and sat up.

Lucy glared at him. “What?”

“I need to tell you something,” he said.

She yawned and put her book down. “All right.”

“I’m not human.”

Lucy laughed. “What are you talking about?”

“I just said. I’m not human.”

“Okay,” said Lucy. “What are you?”

“I’m an unbound being.”

“What’s that?”

“Me, for one thing.”

“Is this a game?” Lucy asked.

“No.”

“Oh,” she said, somewhat disappointed. “Uh, all right. What are you unbound from?”

“The laws of the universe,” he said.

“What does that mean?” she said.

Without warning, John’s body left the sofa and drifted gently upward toward the unfinished basement ceiling.

Lucy watched, open-mouthed. “What?” she said, staring up at John’s dangling feet. “How are you doing that?”

“I told you: I’m unbound.”

Lucy was speechless. John’s tube-socked feet hung before her face, kicking gently back and forth. She reached up and yanked the sock from his left foot, exposing dirty toes and a Band-Aid on his heel. The bare, grimy foot continued to kick. Lucy opened her mouth, hesitated a moment, and screamed.

John immediately sank back to the sofa. He took his sock back.

“That wasn’t funny!” Lucy shouted.

“No, it wasn’t,” he agreed.

“No, seriously. That wasn’t funny. How did you do that?”

“I said already. I’m not human.”

“What are you?” Lucy demanded.

“An unbound being,” he said patiently.

“I don’t understand what that means!”

John frowned. “It’s hard to explain. You know how there are rules for how stuff works?”

“Rules?”

“Yeah, like gravity. When you drop something, it always falls down, never up. Right?”

“Okay, sure. Yeah.”

“They don’t apply to me,” John explained. “That’s what makes me unbound. I’m unbound by the rules of this universe.”

“What do you mean?” Lucy blinked. “Are you an alien?”

“Well, I’m not exactly from your planet,” John replied, “so I guess.”

“Really? What planet are you from?” Lucy demanded.

“I’m not,” said John. “I’m just here.”

“You have to be from somewhere.”

“I’m from everywhere.”

Lucy chewed her lip, considering this statement. John put his sock back on while he waited. Finally, she said: “Are you like air?”

He smiled. “Kinda. Except air isn’t everywhere.”

“Like outer space, then.”

“More like that.”

“Show me.”

John laughed. “How can I show that?”

“I don’t know. Disappear.”

“Disappear?”

“You can’t be everywhere when you’re sitting right here, can you?”

“I can, but …” John shrugged and vanished.

Lucy squeaked and put her hand out. Empty space. “John?”

Still here, he answered.

She waved her hands in front of her. “How can you be talking?”

What, I’m not allowed to talk now?

John reappeared. Lucy inadvertently poked him with her waving hands. “Ow,” he said.

“Sorry.”

He rubbed his chest. “Your fingers are really pointy.”

“How’d you do that?”

“I told you,” he said. “I’m not human. I’m an unbound being.”

Lucy reached out and punched him.

“Ow!” he yelled.

“How come you never told me about this before?”

“I thought it would freak you out,” he said.

“Then why are you telling me now?”

“Because I think it’s time for me to go.”

“Go?”

“Yeah. I’ve been here all summer, almost.”

“So?” said Lucy. Her stomach fluttered.

“It’s been long enough,” John said. “It’s time for me to go.”

“Go where?”

“Away.” He looked solemn. “Just away.”

“This is a stupid joke, isn’t it?”

“No. It’s not a joke.”

“Then it’s a trick,” Lucy said. “The floaty thing was a trick. You hypnotized me.”

“I didn’t and you know it.”

“Prove it.”

John sighed. He took her hand. He squeezed it reassuringly. And just like that, he was a large fluffy Alaskan malamute.

Lucy squealed and threw her arms around him. He licked her ear. “Oh my god!” she cried. He wriggled and whined. She squeezed him, delighted. “Can you stay like this?” she asked, sitting back to look at him, her eyes shining.

He tilted his head and panted. His large, soft pink tongue lolled. He woofed once.

“But you’re so cute,” Lucy said.

He turned back into human John. “I’m cute when I look like this, too,” he said.

Lucy made a face. “I liked you better as a dog.”

“You’re a terrible friend.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like you as a human. I just said I liked you better as a dog. I’ve always wanted a dog.”

“I’m not going to be your dog.”

Lucy sighed.

John rolled his eyes. “You see now? I’m really not human.”

“Yes. You’re really not human.” She sighed. “But why do you have to leave?”

“I have to,” he said. “You need to turn into who you’re going to be. And you can’t do it with me around.”

“Why not?” Lucy’s eyes burned. “Aren’t I still me with you here?”

“It’s complicated,” he sighed.

“No it’s not,” she said. “You said you were unbound and you didn’t have any rules. So you could stay if you wanted to.”

“But I won’t.”

“Don’t you like me?”

“I like you a lot.” His eyes, like rain on the ocean, spilled over.

“So don’t go.”

“I’m going to go. I need to go.” He took a deep breath. “And I have to make you forget me.”

The expression on his face confused her. Her mother’s face often displayed emotions Lucy didn’t understand, but John’s face exhibited familiar emotions. She just didn’t know why they were there. “What do you mean?”

“You heard me.”

“But … you can’t do that.”

“I can do that.”

Lucy recoiled. “I don’t want you to!”

“I won’t do it unless you say it’s okay.”

“I’m never going to say it’s okay!” Lucy cried. “Why are you doing this to me? And if you say it’s for my own good, I’m going to punch you in the nose.”

“It’s not for your own good,” he said. “It’s for mine.”

“That’s mean!”

He took a long breath. He wiped his nose. “I know.”

“So don’t do it.”

He shook his head and said nothing.

“Go away,” said Lucy. “Go away!”

He vanished, startling her. She picked up the book he had been reading and threw it across the room.

Next Chapter: (Still) Part 1: Age 8