The wind was almost still. You could be forgiven for thinking there was none at all. It moved, nonetheless, from the intersection down the dark suburban street till it found the raccoon and mockingbird climbing the front steps of one unremarkable house among many.

“I don't know where he got it," said Craig. The smell of candle-charred pumpkin still saturated the night air, though all but the oldest and rowdiest trick or treaters had long since wandered home. “He probably imported it from somewhere that he heard of on some forum where they spend all day talking about how video games are for morons and smart people only play games that come in fifteen boxes and take a week to read the rules." The raccoon stepped back from Jeremy's door and stuffed his paws in his sweatshirt pockets.

“I'm just saying," Tom said, “I tried to look it up. I couldn't find anyone who'd ever heard of it." He couldn't hear if the doorbell had gone off when Craig had pressed the button, and the mockingbird was tempted to knock, but he didn't want to seem like he was in a hurry to get inside. Not tonight, anyway. 

“You sure you got the name right?"

“YOU are the one who told me it was called 'Fourth Man at the Crossroad." Tom scowled. “If I didn't have the name right, that's YOUR fault."

“Well…" Craig frowned, searching for something that would put him on the offensive again, “at least I didn't have to get bribed into going out and actually DOING something halloween night!"

“We're not in high school anymore, Craig!"

“Exactly! We've got to look out for ourselves!" The raccoon pressed the doorbell again. Still no indication whether it made the slightest sound. “The Youth Group isn't gonna set up apple bobbing and a hayride to trick us into hanging out in the church parking lot anymore! You don't get invited to Grace's parties since you broke up with her, and I never got invited to Grace's parties except if I was going with YOU, and who the hell else even DOES parties in this nowhere town? We're not gonna have ANYTHING to do halloween night if we don't set it up ourselves."

“How is going to Jeremy's house and playing one of his weird games 'setting it up ourselves?"

If Craig had an answer, it would have to wait. Jeremy opened the door fast enough that they both jumped. The possum tilted back his head, looked at them balefully through glasses that he'd pushed unusually far down his nose.

Tom and Craig blinked back, wondering which of them would say hello first.

“Gentlemen!" Jeremy intoned, and saved them the trouble. “Are you prepared for a challenge such as most men never dare to face?" He was doing some kind of accent, though it didn't sound like something from any place real.

“He means the game, right?" Craig said to Tom.

“Don't be a shit, dude, you're the one who wanted to play it." Tom said.

“Oh, I assure you," Jeremy said, pushing his glasses back into a more reasonable if less dramatic position, “Not half as much as I want to!"

They followed him inside. The heavy front door shut with a thud that echoed down the street, which was haunted only by windblown leaves and flickering streetlamps once Jeremy switched off the night's final porch light.

“The rules specify a candle?" Tom frowned, a cup of punch in one hand, the shot of cheap vodka he was about to pour into it in the other.

Jeremy had already set up the game. Tom didn't know the possum very well, wasn't even sure if Craig knew him very well, but he'd never seen him this excited before.

“Not a candle, specifically" Jeremy said, leafing through the rulebook—cheaply printed, yellowed with age like the pages of an old fantasy paperback, “But it definitely says we're supposed to have 'a fire at the crossroads!" He plopped the rules back down next to the pile of cards, as if reading them himself was somehow supposed to convince the mockingbird.

“A Carribean Breeze scented candle, though?"

“It was what I had!"

“So that makes this," Craig gestured at the gently warped cardboard cross on the kitchen table, “the crossroad?" The raccoon had an apple in his hand. Jeremey had said, when he brought them up to the kitchen, that he'd meant to make them caramel apples and hadn't got around to buying caramel.

“Yeah!" They sat around three sides of the table. Candlelight on two confused and one bombastically exuberant face reflected, semi-transparent, on the dark window facing the street. Jeremy ran a finger along one of the arms of the board, over spaces marked for cards, with a kind of tenderness that Tom decided not to let his interior monologue describe. “The object of the game is to put together a winning hand from the cards you draw along the roads. There's only enough cards on the road to put together three hands, though, so the last person left loses the game. That's why it's called Fourth Man Left Outside!"

“I was told," Tom glared at Craig, “It was called Fourth Man at the Crossroad."

“Nevermind!" Craig leaned forward hastily before Jeremy could finish blinking at both of them and ask who'd told him that. “How do we play? Wait! How can there be a fourth player left behind if there's only three of us?"

“Oh, that's the spooky part!" Jeremy opened the box—waterstained, and the kind of old you'd see on the top of grandma's bookshelf, from before they would bother printing pictures on the plain green surface—and pulled out a strangely angled pile of cardboard. Tom's first thought was that it was some kind of tiny folding chair, but then Jeremy was unfolding it, and what had been thumbholes became eyes and what had been tabs became cheekbones and then he set the little cardboard face on the fourth, unoccupied, side of the game board.

“Every turn the Fourth Man takes a card too, and nobody gets to look at those cards till we compare scores at the end!" Jeremy said, like it was the most exciting thing imaginable.

“Wait," Craig objected, “so we might lose to… a origami opera mask?"

“Think of it like a Banker's hand in baccarat!" Jeremy said.

“I don't know how to play baccarat, dude!"

Tom flipped through the cards, ignoring the possum's futile attempts to explain to the raccoon. The cards had the soft, smooth, powdery feel of paper not meant to last as long as it has. He'd have expected them to have instructions. Rules, maybe. Things like “5 points," or “go back three spaces" or “draw two!" But instead there were pictures. Odd ones. A little heap of some fruits in a bowl, one skull tucked among them. A pair of hands tied at the wrists with blossoming thorns. An owl perched on the roof of a burning house.

“Jer," said Tom, “are you sure these are the right cards?"

“Yeah, why?"

“Well," Tom showed the one that had a dark cathedral in a field of snow. He came close to saying they looked like weird tarot cards, not something for a game, then changed his mind and instead said, “I can't tell how to use them."

“Yeah, these look like weird Tarot cards, not something from a game," said Craig, saving him the trouble.

“Tarot cards were originally a game too, you know!" Jeremy said.

“I don't know how to play that game either, dude!"

“Don't worry, I've got the rules," the possum took his seat, “I can explain as we go."

“Fine," Craig said. The raccoon took the three pawns and plopped them on the center space, next to the candle, with a clean dull click. “Let's get started already!"

Tom had the question 'where did you get this game?' on his tongue, was opening his mouth to ask it, when he saw the movement in his peripheral vision, and looked up. In the dark window, the reflection of the little cardboard mask was gone. Or blocked, perhaps. Because in the reflection, someone was sitting on the fourth side of the little table, leaning forward toward the board, towards them, his back to the window.

And then the world disappeared, so 'who the fuck is THAT?' was another question Tom never got a chance to ask.

The first thing he was able to see clearly, once he put together what he was looking at, was the road. It was dirt, level, dusty, and went laser-pointer straight in front of him all the way to the horizon.

The second thing was the landscape. Gently rolling, shades of late autumn brown and grey, a few patches of scrub plants scattered a long way off. What few structures were visible were mere ruins of ruins, arches standing in the open, squares of bare stone foundations.

The third thing was the sky. It was the kind of sky that would make you look at the road and the plains first. It wasn't red the way a sunset is red, or the way that heavy clouds lit from below by light pollution are red. It was the kind of red you'd get if the sun were the color of cherry cough syrup, and the clouds were black and boiling and blowing faster than clouds should be able to. Clouds appeared, swelled, melted, and vanished in a matter of seconds and by the time they'd done it they'd crossed the entire sky. It looked like it should have made a sound, and not one that would have been pleasant to hear.

The fourth and fifth thing were the crossroad they were standing on, and the man standing a few paces away, watching them. “Well then," he said, voice deep and breathy, “It's been more'n a little while since anyone sat down to play with me."

Tom would have said that he was too tall to be a fox or a coyote, but he was also too tall to be a wolf. He maybe would have been able to identify him if his face was visible, but all that could be seen was a blank mask. Ears up top, the shape of the muzzle underneath, unreadable eyeholes, nothing else.

It was hard to make himself believe that there was a face underneath the mask at all.

“Who are you?" Craig blurted, halfway hiding behind Tom, “Where are we?"

“Not anyplace, here. This is just in between, an intersection on the way between everywhere and everywhere else. That's why we're meetin' here." The man's expression was invisible, behind the mask, but his tone said both that they were supposed to have known that and that he wasn't surprised they didn't. “Maybe y'all ought to have been sure you knew the rules before y'all started playin' this game."

“It's ok," Jeremy said, “I've got the rules here!" The flimsy pamphlet rattled in the wind when he held it up. “We can still read them!"

“READ them?" the man chuckled, though Jeremy hadn't been talking to him. “All right, y'all go ahead and READ the rules. I'll be here when you're done. No particular hurry." He squatted on his haunches, and warmed his hands at the campfire by the corner where the roads met.

The campfire smelled like Caribbean Breeze.

“Jer," Craig turned to Jeremy with barely contained fury, “I need you to tell me you know how this works and how we get out of this."

“I'm sure," the possum gulped and distant thunder sounded, “there'll be something in the rules that will help." The thunder sounded wrong, like it was echoing inside a giant metal drum, and it was hard to shake the feeling there had been words in it. “Ok, we're supposed to go along the roads and draw cards, so the cards must be, you know…" he waved down one of the roads, impossible to tell which direction it was.

“And how do we tell which are the good cards? What hands are we trying to do? What are the combinations?" Tom couldn't have stopped the furious questions pouring from his mouth so it was good that he felt no inclination to try. “I couldn't tell what they were supposed to mean even when they WERE CARDS in your kitchen, who knows what they'll even look like here, and-"

“There's descriptions of the winning hands in the rules!" the possum snapped, waving the rules in Tom's face, “I'll TELL you what they are if you stop YELLING at me."

“Calm down," Craig tried to get in between them, “I might not have been paying much attention but I definitely remember there was a part where three players win and one loses, right? So that means we team up! Three of us, one of him! No fighting!"

Jeremy's eyes locked on the horizon. “No… you don't win by winning. You win by not losing. The more likely one of you loses, the more likely I go home. Hey!" he stepped toward the masked man as quickly as he could, to stay ahead of Tom's anger and Craig's realization. “I'm ready to start! Which way do I go?"

“Why, whichever way you please." the man turned. The firelight dimly showed through the translucent fabric—if it was fabric—of his mask, and Tom told himself that the brief outline of a canine skull underneath was only his imagination. “Take first pick of roads, I'm accomadatin' like that."

“Great." Jeremy gripped the rules in one first and turned down one of the roads. “No hard feelings!" he called over his shoulder as he took a first step.

And he was gone.

There were hard feelings, nonetheless.

“And which road'll eacha you fellas be choosin', then?" The man got to his feet, stretched lazily, adjusted his dusty coat, stepped to the center of the crossroad.

Tom felt Craig take his hand. “Don't leave me, dude," the raccoon whispered.

“I won't." The mockingbird whispered back. “Hey! We're going together!" he squared his shoulder and prepared to argue.

The man shrugged. “Ain't nothin' in the rules says you can't. Can't say I recommend it, but-"

Tom glanced at Craig. His eyes were wide and tense in his dark fur. “Don't care. We're sticking together."

“On your way, then."

Tom held Craig's hand tight, turned down the opposite road from the one down which Jeremy had gone, and took a step.

There was little left of the small church. The pillars and arches still stood, mostly, but the roof was gone. Wildflowers and birdsong filled the space instead of incense and hymn. The cool breeze through the windows where once stained glass had shone carried the smell of new grass.

Only one person was at prayer here.

An otter, young, on his knees, stripped to the waist. Short sword and spring-green armor laid on what was left of the altar, Living thorns grew up him, wound around him, binding his hands and crowning his head with buds and blossoms, but he barely moved and they drew no blood, and he seemed to pay them no more mind than he paid the two people who'd just appeared beside him, baffled and afraid, before vanishing again and leaving him to his vigil.

“Wait, what?" was the closest Craig was able to come to articulating his thoughts.

Tom fought to catch his breath. They'd been on the road, they were on the road again, but between picking up his foot and putting it down again they'd been somewhere else: different sky, different air, different everything. It felt as if they'd seen into a lighted, uncurtained room at night from a car as they drove by, into a momentary glimpse of a stranger's life and world.

“What WAS that?!" Craig demanded.

Tom raised his free hand to find a card in it. He was pretty sure he recognized it. It had a pair of hands, bound at the wrist with thorns.

“I think," he answered, “that was what we're looking for."

Craig looked back, blankly, like Tom had just spoken backward. His chest was heaving and Tom half expected him to vomit. “Are you ok? Do you need to sit down?" Tom asked.

“If we rest, the Mask Thing gets ahead. Jeremy gets ahead. I'll…" Craig shook his head. “...keep it together. I guess. I just wish I knew what was happening."

Tom agreed but there was no point to saying so. He just picked up his foot to take the next step.

The hillside was too dark to see much. The shapes of pine branches were barely visible against a dark grey pre-dawn sky. As their eyes adjusted Tom and Criag began to see the little clusters of people, huddled in capes and cowls around the cold remains of campfires. They were everywhere on the hillside. They made not a sound. There were manacles on their feet.

And they were beginning to look up.

Because there was movement below. A big cat—Tom would have said a maneless lion, but no, he had sabre teeth, like an illustration from an old science textbook—strode to the front of a grassy stage surrounded by a rough timber amphitheatre. He stood like an orchestra conductor, and he was dressed like someone attending a wedding, but underneath he was a mountain of muscle. He stood a moment, motionless, breathing deeply, then at some signal visible only to him he threw back his head and opened his mouth and sang. Unearthly music, incredibly, impossibly beautiful, but pitiless. Menacing.

As his voice rolled off the slopes the sun broke over the horizon behind him, and the clouds shriveled away.

The room was empty. The house was not abandoned, but it was unlived-in. Less faded spots on the walls, less trampled spots on the carpet, were the only signs that pictures or furniture had been here. In some corners a forgotten tool or discarded cardboard box mouldered. The only remnant of habitation was a single candle on the windowsill, unlit, burned almost to the base.

A flame sputtered to life, spontaneously, on the wick.

For a moment the flame was all that was visible, suspended in darkness that smelled subtly of soot. When the room faded slowly back into visibility, it was no longer empty: there was a couch and a recliner, covered with dingy cloths. There was an antique television. Through the window snow was falling. There was a hospital bed, empty, sheets folded neatly at the bottom, and beside it on a bedside table a second unlit candle.

Again the candle lit itself, again the darkness, again the flames were all that could be seen till their light brought the room back. Now the chair and couch were uncovered, the snow had become rain, the hospital bed was gone, and in its place was a desk, books scattered, ink spilled and pooling around the base of a third candle, and when that one lit, the house was new, the room was full, pictures of smiling people on the walls, and a shaft of sunlight streamed in the open door.

After a moment all three candles blew out, and there was nothing.

When Tom and Craig appeared again, the view was incomparable to anything they'd ever seen before.

They stood at the top of a rocky bluff. Below them spread a terraced plain, with a river crossing it in a series of waterfalls down to a glittering sea. That was very pretty, but it wasn't the incomparable part.

Above their heads, almost directly, the sky was neatly divided in half. It took a moment to tell by what, but it looked like just a brightly lit line. If they looked more closely they could see grooves, like on a record or left by a thick paintbrush, and across the planes below them was a broad swath of dim shadow. Criag had flopped to his seat when he'd realized it was a planetary ring, seen from the planet. But that still wasn't the incomparable part.

No, that was the islands in the sky.

Rocky chunks, some as small as houses, some as large as mountains, rose gently into the sky. Vines trailed from some, waterfalls cascaded from others, dissolving into mist before they ever reached the ground. Some were high enough that the clouds were breaking against them like standing waves in a steep river.

“I think they're moving," the raccoon said, still seated on the ground, “like, relative to the ground. I dunno how though."

“Maybe just, you know," Tom frowned, “magic?"

“Maybe that, yeah."

They watched the mountains drift gently through the sky, like bubbles, and the shadows cross the fields below. The sunlight behind them through one of the waterfalls painted a rainbow parallel to the rings.

Craig spoke up with the suddenness of a volcanic eruption. “What if we stayed here?"

“What?"

“Instead of going back and playing Jeremy's stupid game with Creepy McDoesn't-have-a-face, and getting turned into goblin slaves or whatever happens when we lose. What if we build a house on one of those islands, just you and me like back in high school? There's nothing dangerous here, it's fuckin gorgeous, why not?"

The mockingbird looked down at the raccoon. “Go on," said Craig, “pick a sky island. I'm serious."

“Isn't it just gonna vanish when we take another step? I don't think we CAN stay."

“You don't know that. You haven't tried!"

The air around them went cool as the bluish shadow of one of the sky islands swept over their bluff.

“We do that, we lose, though." Tom said.

“Weren't we gonna do that anyway?"

“No." The mockingbird's voice was harder than Craig had ever heard it before. “We're gonna win. We're gonna keep going till we've both got hands that beat the Mask Guy, and then I'm getting you home."

Craig couldn't find anything to say. The shadow passed. He still didn't speak.

“It really is gorgeous, isn't it?" Tom said.

“It is." Craig was unsure where he was going with that.

“But if we do lose, and we don't get to go home…" Tom held out his hand and pulled the raccoon to his feet, “I'll ask for directions back, uh, here. This world. Place. Whatever it is. Deal?"

“...ok, deal."

And they were gone.

"How many bones is your house built on, friend?"

The only sound was a guitar, slow, mournful, barely in tune.

“Folk ask why I tell ghost stories, y'see. So I ask 'em back. How many bones?"

The building they were in might have been a cafe, might have been a bar. There was nothing outside but bright red desert shimmering in heat mirage. There was nothing on the shelves or behind the counter, but on a stool in the corner was a figure holding a beat up guitar. They couldn't be seen clearly until they leaned forward and the sunbaked desert through the screen window was behind them.

And then you could see the desert through their ribcage, as well.

“Is he talking to us?" whispered Craig.

“I don't think so," whispered Tom.

"Poor folk as died hungry, workers and slaves weary unto death, soldiers kilt in useless wars and those they kilt," The skeletal guitar player continued—a rabbit, once, Tom would have guessed, or maybe a rat, “and how many hundreds of years of people before that whose names you never even heard of?"

“Who else is there?" whispered Craig.

“They're not talking to anyone," whispered Tom, “They're just like… reciting."

They raised empty eye sockets and looked past them, past the walls, past the desert outside. “Oh friend, you give a story, any story, its head? You let it step one foot off the paved road, you let it go where it wants, you let it grow? Look close, with honest eyes, you'll see for yourself." The sound of the guitar stopped dead, and only then did they notice that the bony hands had never once touched the strings. “Ain't no story that don't turn out to be a ghost story, sooner or later."

After a moment or so of expectant silence, Tom and Craig applauded, politely, before they realized that there was no longer anybody there.

The train station, like every place they'd seen so far, was abandoned. The doors to the empty platforms and tracks stood ajar, the tile floor was mildewed. Something about the building felt like it was underground. Their steps echoed off the high vaulted ceiling and the high dusty windows.

The woman in the main room got to her feet when they entered.

She was a lizard, wearing all white, including her blindfold. She had a sword, not on her hip, just sheathed in her hand. Her tail lashed, but the rest of her stayed still.

Then Tom took a step. She drew her sword.

The mockingbird stopped short, hands raised, but though the sword tip was pointed directly at his chest her face did not turn toward them. “You," her voice was hard and unimpressed, “listen, for I will speak, and but only once."

“She's not actually talking to you, is she?" said Craig.

“I will speak to him, not to you" she still did not turn, but the sword did not move, “and you will be silent. You, Thomas, son of Thaddeus, have a choice to make. One that will determine the course of all your life."

“Uh, if you mean the game-" Tom began.

“You will also be silent," she sneered, “It is a choice you do not know is before you." Her sword swept to point to one of the tracks outside. “One way is for the sake of yourself, and it leads to misery." The sword moved, pointed to another platform, “The other is for the sake of another, and that way lies contentment."

“I… don't understand what you're talking about. Uh, ma'am." Tom had read somewhere that being polite was important when dealing with, well, Beings, and hoped it would help now.

“It is my place to tell you of the choice before you," she sheathed the sword again, in a long smooth motion. “I have done so. I care not whether you understand." She turned on her heel and strode from the room.

“What was that about?" said Craig, when he was sure she was gone.

Tom was about to say that he didn't know, when there came a sound like a huge bell, as if the ground beneath them were ringing, and they felt the world around them move, twist, and begin to disappear.

They found themselves back at the crossroads.

Jeremy was seething, “Just ONE MORE! ONE!" the way he always did when he lost a board game. “I had the eight, nine, ten, and eleven of rings, I JUST needed the twelve or the seven!"

“Y'know," said the man in the mask, too calmly, “usually it's the one who calls us all back to the crossroads that shows his hand first, there, but I s'pose knowin' the rules ain't somethin you been strong on, so far. What's your last card, then?"

“It's NOTHING," Jeremy spat, “it was some gothic architecture in the snow! It's not even in the rulebook!"

“Oh, the Dark Tower? Not bad, and even if it ain't the strongest hand I ever seen, it's not nothin."

“But it's not in the rulebook!" Jeremy objected.

“You're arguin' and gripin' already and you aint even seen whether anyone else's even got a hand to lay down! Even after you left your friends set up to not get enough cards?" The man laid one finger in front of where his lips presumably were. Jeremy stopped talking, and it didn't look as if he'd meant to. “You made your play, boy. Now hush. It's someone else's turn." He spread five cards in a smooth arc, over his head, and they hung in the air. “The Savior of Autumn, the King of Graves, the Shaman, Sunset, the Wolf. One a' my favorite hands, f'I do say so my own self."

Jeremy flipped furiously through the back of the rulebook. “That's not in the winning hands here!"

“You talk about the rules like you own 'em. You sure you ought to?" The voice behind the mask was quiet and low and utterly unamused. “That ain't a list of hands that can win. That's a list of hands that have won."

“He's gonna turn to us any second," Craig winced, “and we've only got six cards." He swallowed hard. “You make a hand, you go back. It ought to be you."

“I'm not leaving you behind."

“There's not enough cards for both of us!"

“I'm not leaving you behind!"

“If I play NOTHING then at least I'm sure you go back!"

“I'm not," Tom's voice hardened, “leaving you behind. Hey!"

The man in the mask turned.

“How do we make these hands?"

“Why," the man said, “Just make a set of five that you feel like makes sense from whatever ended up in your hands. The best ones are s'posed to tell a story, though I guess not everybody what plays a hand can tell what story they're playin'."

“So that means I could do something like," Tom plucked cards from the six they had, put one back, rearranged them, “these floating islands?"

“The Four of Tides."

“And... this lady with the sword, and the skeleton with the guitar?"

“The Sage of Swords and the Vagrant, yup."

“And this…" Tom dug in his pocket, praying he hadn't dropped it somewhere, “Plastic shot glass that I drank punch out of?"

The man in the mask looked at the mockingbird, under the painful sky. A cold wind blew through the crossroads. “Well," he said after Tom had started fearing the worst, “The Empty Cup is in the deck, and I can't deny you got that Empty Cup. Guess I don't see as there's anything in the rules says you can't. That's four. You holdin' anything else?"

Tom slowly held up Craig's hand.

“The Hand of the Friend." The man in the mask said. “Alright, that's YOUR play, what about his?"

Tom quickly passed the rest of the cards to Craig. “I tried to give you the ones that made sense together, you've still got that apple?" he whispered.

“I took a couple bites out of it."

“It'll have to do."

“Okay," Craig stepped forward, “I've got this apple? What's that?"

“You tell me. I could see callin' it the Fruit of Knowledge, if you want."

“And these cards… and…" he gulped, pointed at Tom, “and the hand of one who I love."

“Wait, what?" said Tom.

“Dude, not now!"

“The Fruit of Knowledge, the Three of Lights, the Victim of Spring, Sunrise, and the Hand of the Lover." The man in the mask said. “Not bad, boy, even better hand than your friend, there."

“Wait hang on!" Jeremy shouted. “Why are they allowed to just make up that random junk is cards? That's not how the game works!"

“I had about enough," said the man in the mask, “of folk tellin' me how this game don't work. They played what was in their hands. My patience got limits, boy, so I'll give you ONE more chance." The clouds were moving faster and thicker, the wind was picking up, there was a growl, but it came from everywhere around them, not the man, “If you got anything else in your hand? Now's the time to play it."

Jeremy looked stricken. “I, uh, have the rulebook?"

The man in the mask shook his head, derisive, disappointed.

He raised one unnervingly long arm.

The crossroads vanished.

It was the day after halloween, late afternoon. The wind blew a few dead leaves down the street, past people throwing away jack o'lanterns, putting up christmas lights, and past the mockingbird walking down the sidewalk toward the raccoon.

“Dude." Craig was standing on the sidewalk. The raccoon's paws were deep in his pockets, and his shoulders were hunched. He didn't move when Tom put a hand on his shoulder. “You ok?"

“Well, I'm fine, but…" Craig trailed off. His eyes didn't move from the house across the street where they'd spent the previous night.

What windows weren't broken were grey with dirt and nearly opaque. Dead leaves had blown across the driveway and fused into the sort of dirty paperlike crust that comes from an entire winter of lying beneath undisturbed snow. The yard was a tangle of weeds, some of which had made their way inside. A section of the roof was sagging, shedding shingles like dandruff, due to collapse any minute. The front door had a spiderweb across it. The stairs to the porch were missing three steps, steps that Tom could remember standing on, and the porchlight, that Jeremy had switched off last night, was broken off and missing.

Nobody had lived there in years. Clearly.

“Did you ask around at all?" Tom said.

“I talked to the neighbors," Craig shrugged. “Said I was looking for an old friend. They said the house has been empty longer than they've lived in the neighborhood."

“I talked to Teanna, at the cafe," Tom said. “I know they dated in high school. She'd… never heard of him. Said I was acting crazy. I said I must be misremembering things so I could leave."

They watched the vacant house in the afternoon sunlight. A dead branch shifted in the wind and rattled against the sagging chain link fence in the side yard.

“So… what happened to him?" Tom finally said.

“I guess he got left outside," Craig hunched his shoulders. “Like the name of the game says."

“So you think he's," Tom pulled his jacket tighter, “dead?"

“I dunno. Dead? Lost? Never existed? Outside? I dunno if there's a word for whatever he is." Craig kicked away a leaf that had blown to rest against his foot as if he'd felt it trying to climb him. “That wasn't what I was worrying about, though."

“What was?"

“If Jeremy was the one left outside," Craig turned and looked deep into Tom's eyes, “does that mean the guy with the mask WASN'T... left outside?"

Tom looked up and down the street for a long time before he admitted that the only thing there was to say was “I don't know."

“Think the game is still in there?"

“I think," Tom sighed, “That if it is, then that's probably the best place for it. Where nobody's gonna get any ideas about playing it."

“What if someone breaks in and takes it?" Craig said.

“How are they going to play it," Tom said, “without the rulebook?"

They turned and headed down the street, the wind behind them, away from the one remarkable house among many unremarkable, through the intersection, and beyond, never to walk that road again.

Hopefully.

“...So, we gonna talk about what you said when we played our hands?" Tom asked, innocently.

“Oh shit." said Craig.