text: "Thanks," you manage, trying to imitate the polite, professional tone he's been using on you. "This is all...very strange. Could I just have a cup of coffee and process this for a few minutes?"
  
   
  
  He smiles, says that's fine, and reminds you your connection is at Gate 4C. Then he shakes your hand and leaves.
  
   
  
  Finally. You take out your phone and dial 911.
  
   
  
  Out of area, says the screen.
  
   
  
  The desk attendant appears at the door.
  
   
  
  She is no longer friendly. Her face is vacant, like a part of a machine no one is bothering to operate. In her hand is a ball-peen hammer.
  
   
  
  You stand up automatically. But she keeps coming.
  
   
  
  You shove the table at her, but it's too heavy to do more than make her back up one step, then keep coming. You throw a chair, and she catches it. You rush to the right, but she always manages to stay between you and the door.
  
   
  
  She closes in. You try to kick, but she doesn't react. She bends low and, without breaking eye contact, smashes the hammer into the bone of your left ankle.
  
   
  
  Colors swim against the sides of your skull, pain radiating through you like electricity.
  
   
  
  "This office closes in ten minutes," she says. She turns and leaves. The folder is still on the table.
  
   
  
  You decide to stop fighting the rules.
  
   
  
  You accept that they--the goblins or whatever they are--are after you. So what should you do--run or hide?
  
   
  
   
  > hide.
   
  
  You limp along for a few feet, then dart into a gift shop. You browse behind a high shelf, waiting to see if anyone (or anything) is following you. Nothing looks suspicious, and no one seems to be paying you any particular attention.
  
  You buy a dark blue Atlanta Braves sweatshirt and pull it over the cashmere J Crew sweater you got from the thrift shop in order to impress your boyfriend's parents. Then it's too hot, so you stuff it into your bag--your bright red bag. After checking your surroundings, you limp over and find a tote bag that says Hotlanta! And buy it (the clerk is, by now, looking at you like you're a freak). You step behind the shelf and transfer everything in your large purse into the tote bag.
  
  Holy damn, your ankle hurts. Every pulse of pain reminds you that this is real.
  
  Suddenly you see them. Two...things. They're about half your height, with green scales and large yellow teeth. They walk on two feet like a person, but they move like lizards.
  
  And no one notices.
  
  People move around them automatically, like they do for plants or luggage, but their eyes never focus on them.  
  
  The goblin's eyes are small, soulless, but peering everywhere. Their little nostrils--their snouts are shaped like an alligator's, but shorter--are twitching. They're sniffing for you.
  
  You step back, trying to move gradually in case fast movement kicks your scent into the air. Sweat pricks your underarms--a result, no doubt, of both your nervousness and the extra layer you've put on.
  
  But when you peek again, they've passed by.
  
  You pull off the sweater under your sweatshirt and manage to yank it off through the neck.
  
  Maybe the smartest thing would be to keep them in front of you. After all, your gate is all the way on the other side of the airport, and you only have four hours to get there. The only way out of this nightmare is to get on that plane to New York.
  
  You wait for them to get about fifty feet ahead, peek out of the store, and, seeing nothing amiss, begin slowly following them, dragging your sore ankle as you walk toward the center of the airport. Along the way, you throw away the purse and sweater, and stop in the bathroom and cover yourself with sickly-sweet strawberry soap--anything to hide your natural scent.After a few minutes, you reach an escalator, which will take you down to the tram area, where you will get a ride to your terminal.
  
  As you near the bottom, suddenly there is a slap-slapping on the marble floor, like someone in thin wet socks.
  
  You turn. There are creatures behind you, weaving around the people at the top of the escalator.
  
  You hurry down the escalator, biting back your yelps of pain. The tram to Gate C has arrived. Should you try to catch it, hoping the doors will close before they can follow you(or if they do, that you can hop out before they do) or turn and fight?  
  
   
  > try for the tram.
   
  
  You limp onto the tram just as the doors close.  
  
   
  
  You aren't stupid--no way is this hell over with. But at least you're safe for now.
  
   
  
  The tram slows at B Gate. Will any of them get on? You edge toward the doors, ready to leap out, but it's just a group of middle schoolers in matching sweatshirts and their chaperone. The tram ambles forward.
  
   
  
  At the next stop, a guy about your age, tall and skinny with a t-shirt advertising a Dropkick Murphys show from eight years ago, gets on. He notices you.
  
   
  
  Huh. Come to think of it, not many people have done that since you found the first postcard. You're no Megan Fox, but you are a reasonably attractive twenty-year-old girl, and you're accustomed to a moderate amount of male perusal while in public. And yet people's eyes have been sliding past you all day. Only airport employees have acknowledged your existence. Weird.
  
   
  
  This guy, however, sees you.
  
   
  
  Probably not good.
  
   
  
  You edge a little closer to the doors. What if he's one of them? A normal college-age boy outside, a goblin inside? Maybe that's the next level--at first the monsters are easy to spot, and then they're in the form of fairly cute guys.
  
   
  
  He walks up to you. "Hi."
  
   
  
  This close he looks familiar. Familiar like a human I've seen before, or familiar like a goblin?
  
   
  
  "I think we went to camp together."
  
   
  
  His eyes are a yellow-striped green--what color were theirs? Damn. You were too panicked to notice.
  
   
  
  "Guess not," he says. You must look pretty freaked out, because he starts backing away slowly.
  
   
  
  And then his face clicks into place. Triple R Ranch. Summer before fourth grade. His name is Dmitri, and the reason you still know that is that he was almost your first kiss. (Instead it was this loser named Jason in sixth grade. He told everyone you tasted like bubble gum--which doesn't seem that bad, but somehow he made it sound absolutely disgusting. What a prick.)
  
   
  
  "Wait," you say. "Dmitri, right?"
  
   
  
  "Yeah. You're Claire."
  
   
  
  "Clara, actually. That's my real name." You like Claire better, but it was too hard to keep telling everyone to call you Claire. They kept forgetting, and finally you just gave up and went with it.
  
   
  
  He asks where you're going, and you tell him. He says he's going to Philadelphia to spend Christmas with his dad--he's headed to the same terminal you are.
  
   
  
  His eyes move over you, but not in a flirtatious way. "Are you okay?"
  
   
  
  You look down. In addition to the sloppy-looking sweatshirt and the way you're holding your foot, you are sweating profusely. "It's been...a stressful trip," you finish lamely.
  
   
  
  "How so?"
  
   
  
  He seems to know there's a deeper meaning to that--which isn't itself strange, Dmitri has always been able to read people pretty well--but you can't shake the feeling that running into him is a little too coincidental. Should you trust him enough to tell him you're being stalked, or just politely brush him off?
  
   
  > trust Dmitri.
   
  
  You make up a story about an old boyfriend who is stalking you and has threatened to kill you. You say the authorities won't do anything because the threats are all verbal, and there's no evidence, and he has a perfect record. Dmitri is skeptical at first, but when he sees that your fear is real, he starts to believe you.
  
   
  
  "So what are you going to do?" he asks.
  
   
  
  "Get off at Terminal D, I guess. He's got to be watching Terminal C, since he knows my itinerary."
  
   
  
  "Yeah, but he's watching for you, right?"
  
   
  
  "Yeah... "
  
   
  
  "So let's be a couple. He'll be looking for someone alone, and that terminal should be pretty crowded since it's a Delta one."
  
   
  
  Should you agree to this, or stick with your original plan of going to D Terminal?
  > go to D Terminal.
   
  
  The second you step off, they're there, and you barely stumble backward into the tram in time. As you do, you hit your head on one of the light poles.
  
   
  
  "Was he out there?" Dmitri looks skeptical again. Probably because from his perspective you just leapt about two feet backward at the sight of a woman with a stroller. 
  
   
  
  "Yeah." The pain spiking through your head makes you want to kill people. "Let's go with your idea."
  
   
  > try terminal C.
   
  
  Reluctantly, you agree.
  
  "Here." He takes off his sweatshirt, which is light gray, and you switch wit him. He turns the Braves one inside out so the logo isn't visible, since they've seen it. You switch bags. He has a carryon, and he unzips it and yanks out a scarf his grandmother just gave him as a Christmas present. You loop it around your face.  
  
  When the tram slows at C, you look out the windows. Two of them are at the edge of the crowd, about ten feet away. There are about seven tram doors opening.
  
  "He's here," you mutter.
  
  "Too close for us to go?"
  
  Dang, it would be easy to say yes. But you don't. "No, we can probably make it."
  
  He puts his arm around you, and you put the hood up, making sure none of your hair is visible. You begin walking, heads turned toward each other.
  
  "We're deep in conversation right now," you say.
  
  "Yes," says Dmitri. "And we're not walking too fast."
  
  "Because we're so absorbed in our deep conversation."
  
  A businessman barrels past you, giving you a look like you're both idiots. He lets his overly large carryon run over Dmitri's foot.
  
  But no slappy-slap-slap.
  
  You make it to the escalator. You make it up the escalator. You make it to terminal C, and duck into a bookstore. There is a closed sandwich stand, and you duck behind the counter and sink onto the sticky tile floor.
  
  "So...." says Dmitri. "You're just going to hang out here for the next two and a half hours?"
  
  You nod. Compared to being violently murdered, it sounds like heaven.
  
  About half an hour before your flight starts boarding, Dmitri goes to get you guys something to eat. When he comes back with Qdoba, he says, "the strangest thing happened. I just got a notification on my phone that my flight is canceled, and I'm rerouted through La Guardia. So I'm on your flight. Weird, huh?"
  
  A shiver of suspicion runs through you. "Yeah, weird," you say, unwrapping your burrito.
  
  Almost as weird as running into him in the first place.
  
  You put down the burrito. You don't trust Dmitri.
  
  Actually, you do--you trust the weird little kid you met at camp. You're just not sure if this guy sitting with you on this disgusting floor is actually him. This whole crazy day has been like something out of a twisted fairy tale, and isn't there something in fairy tales about not taking food from strangers?
  
  At the same time, you skipped breakfast this morning. You're so hungry you're slightly dizzy, even sitting down. You doubt you'll be able to run or think at your best if you don't get some nourishment.
  
  Should you eat or not?
  > eat.
   
  
  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?
  > hide somewhere.
  You duck into a large, crowded restaurant and hide at a table in the back. Ten minutes before your flight takes off, you slowly come out.
  
  Dmitri is still by the empty deli counter.
  
  "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 flight," you say.  "If I ever actually get on there."
  > to the planemobile!
   
  
  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's a goblin 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 whole crazy debacle 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. "So the only good reason to sit beside someone is if you're having sex with them? So what if we're friends? Friends talk. Is having a conversation not a good enough reason to sit beside someone?"
  
  "Clara," he says. "What's going on?"
  
  "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?"
  
  "Yes," you say. "I 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, and incredibly hungry again.  
  
  Should you eat this incredibly sketchy food?
  > um, no. It's from the friggin' goblin club.
   
  
   
  
  As the flight goes on, you get more and more nauseous. Soon you are shaking all over. You wretch a few times, but there's nothing for you to throw up, so you don't.
  
  When it's time to get off the plane, the goblin is already gone, just like all the other first-class passengers. A glass with a few traces of red wine sits on the tray beside his seat.
  
  You walk through JFK with Dmitri. He holds your sweaty, shaky hand, watching your face for any sign of them, but there are no goblins.
  
  You get your luggage from baggage claim and turn toward the exit. Outside is a long line of taxis.
  
  In front of the door is a huge goblin. Taller than you. Taller than any human who's not in the NBA.
  
  "There's one there," you say dully to Dmitri, pointing toward it. His eyes follow your finger. He squints hard.
  
  "I think I see a--a shadow."
  
  There are about ten sets of doors to the taxi line, so you turn toward another one and start trudging toward it. It probably won't work, but hey, what do you have to lose?
  
  It doesn't move. "Go ahead."
  
  You turn, shocked. They've never spoken before.
  
  "If you do, I'll follow you. I'll never kill you, but I'll keep following you for the rest of your life."
  
  You can't fight him. You're tired and shaking, and at some point you must've banged your right knee on something because it hurts like hell. But you also can't let him follow you around forever.
  
  What should you do?
  
   
  > ask Dmitri to fight him.
   
  
  As soon as you ask him, the goblin laughs. It's a liquid, disgusting sound. "What kind of story do you think this is? I'm not his goblin. Also, it's 2016--fight your own battles, missy."
  
   
  > fight him--hey, maybe you'll win.
   
  
  Okay, what will you fight him with?
  
  You now have your heavy, hard-sided suitcase, with a large textbook and the statue you planned to give to Keith's parents inside. Despite its weight, you could probably get it over your head, and since it's already in your hand, speed would be on your side.
  
  Nearby is a frail old lady carrying a long umbrella with a fairly pointy metal tip.
  
  Also nearby is a large, heavy metal luggage cart, which you definitely couldn't lift over your head but might do some serious damage if used like a battering ram.
  > hit him with the suitcase.
   
  
  In your weakened state, you can barely lift the suitcase. It doesn't even slow the goblin down. He swats you like a fly, and the last thing you see before your head hits the floor is Dmitri reaching out his hand, trying too late to save you.