text:  
  
  Your stomach starts to churn. There’s nothing magical or enchanted about this nausea--it’s identical to the last time you got food poisoning. You turn and hurl the contents of your stomach onto the grimy floor.
  
  
  It smells. It smells like me, you think. Like my insides.
  
  
  The sound of running.
  
  
  You leap up, and vault over the counter almost effortlessly--only later you remember Dmitri’s hands under your ribs, propelling you--and run.
  
  
  You only have to elude them for twenty minutes. Twenty stupid minutes is all that’s between you and being okay.
  
  
  You see an opening in the crowd and dart through. Without your heavy bag you must be faster than they are, because the space between you and them is widening. 
  
  
  Should you keep running, or find a place to hide?
  > You keep running.
  A huge tour group walks in a slow line right in front of you. You shove past them, but not long afterward, the slap-slapping comes behind you. Teeth gnash your knee, and you fall.
  
  
  A hard bite to your shoulder, and then the weight of the goblin is off of you, and you sit up in time to watch it careen into a moving walkway.  Dmitri stands above you.
  
  
  “What,” he says, “was that? It looked like you were having a seizure. Except no one even saw you. I could barely see you.” He shakes his head, as if something has been fogging his vision.
  
  
  “I’ll explain on the plane,” you say. Your shoulder is bleeding, but not too badly. “If I ever actually get on there.”
  
  
   
  > You continue toward the gate.
   
  
  They don’t move.
  
  
  You keep walking, leg muscles braced, ready to stop and turn around.
  
  
  Your damp, shaking hand holds out the ticket. The agent smiles--a real, human smile--and tells you to have a nice flight. You walk past them and get on the plane. Their eyes never leave you, but they don’t move. Apparently you’ve earned the right to get on the plane.
  
  
  As you get into the cabin, you halt. There is one in an empty seat. (An empty first-class seat--pretty bloody annoying.) It’s somehow wearing what looks like an expensive pinstriped suit, and the stupid flight attendant is handing him some wine.
  
  
  In the pocket of the seat in front of you is a postcard showing Times Square. You slide it out and flip it over.
  
  
  Rest and eat. This ain't finished yet.
  
  
  Well, isn’t that great. You’d love to eat--if you had any friggin’ food.
  
  
  This is just so stupid. What’s even the point of it? Goblins. Gremlins, or whatever they are. They’re bright Crayola green--they don’t even look realistic.
  
  
  Dmitri appears in front of you. “Hi,” he says, but he’s talking to the guy in the middle seat beside you. “I have an exit row seat--would you mind switching so I can sit by my girlfriend?”
  
  
  The guy is only too happy to switch to an exit row, and soon Dmitri is settled beside you.
  
  
  “I’m not your girlfriend,” you say. How are you even going to explain this to your boyfriend?
  
  
  Easy: you won’t. How could you? It’s unexplainable. You’ve become good at knowing which things not to bother Keith with, and this is definitely one of them.
  
  
  “I know,” Dmitri said. “But I didn’t think he would switch if we were just friends.”
  
  
  “Well, that’s really stupid.” You probably shouldn’t be taking this out on him, seeing as he rescued you and all, but you are hungry and exhausted and you know he’s about to ask a bunch of questions you can’t answer and you just want this stupid trip to be over already. 
  
  
  “Clara,” he says. “What’s going on, exactly?” Apparently he's figured out that jealous boyfriends aren't generally invisible.
  
  
  “I don’t know. It just happened.” You explain what you can about the postcards and the goblins. You hand him the postcard, but he finds the handwriting impossible to read--which makes no sense, it’s sloppy, but not that sloppy.
  
  
  “Do you think they’ll actually kill you?”
  
  
  "I know they will," you say, because you do.
  
  
  He takes your hand.
  
  
  Not long after, you fall asleep.You wake up to the stewardess’ voice.
  
  
  “Miss Conner, here’s the meal you ordered for this flight.” She seems to be in a hurry, and pulls your tray out for you so she can set it down and attend to something else.
  
  
  It appears to be a chicken salad sandwich and some chips. Which you definitely did not order.
  
  
  You realize you’re nauseous again, and incredibly hungry. 
  
  
  Should you eat this incredibly sketchy food?