“ Hey, I’m not that old. Don’t make it
sound like the end of the world now.
What are you, eight or somethin’?. ”
;⚜—ℒ⊱
“ Funny, but no. I’m twelve. “
She scowls softly and curls her fingers around the
book she’d previously been engrossed in, tilting her
head as she examines the odd man with clothes too
foreign, too modern for her comfort. He had come in
through something he’d called a tear, and while she
didn’t fully understand the principle behind it, she was
quite bewitched by the concept of the rip between the
two universes that allowed him to move freely to her
world from his own. Rosalind was, in a word, infatu-
ated by the explanation he’d provided her–and while
he himself was hardly a fascinating man, she was
still determined to milk him dry for answers all night.
“ So where are you from… er,
Mr. DeWitt, wasn’t that it?
And I do mean originally,
don’t feed me some rubbish
about your other universe. “