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  Such thoughts kept me distracted during the amble to Mylia’s orphanage. Which, according to the map, was actually called [Haven Valley]’s orphanage. Not Mylia’s. There were a few notes about the kids in Carver’s map notes, but the journals had been mostly useless regarding this town. What exactly did William Carver tell to these little children?

  The children had a crazy scouting system that announced my presence almost a full minute before I limped to the actual building. By that time, Mylia had already opened the door, and one of the larger children had run off with the bag in my hands. My little [Messenger’s Pet] was poking out of the hood and looking around in confusion, one ear cocked forward. Each new shout and shriek sent him dodging and rolling around in my hood.

  Then he’d poke back out again and look around.

  “You made it, Mister Carver.”

  “I did.” The cane helped me huff a few more steps through the doorway into a room filled with a dozen already excited children.

  “The kids have been looking forward to this all day.”

  “Which one ran off with my bag?” Hopefully one of the orphans hadn’t already stolen all the semi-fresh cookies.

  “Probably Phil. He’s always snooping and finding strange things.” She sighed and pulled a rag from her apron in order to clean up some child’s messy face. “I swear, that boy comes back with the oddest things.”

  “Not stealing, is he?” That abrupt statement lost me one of my precious Carver Progress points. I should have asked myself, “What Would Carver Do?”

  “I don’t ask.”

  I snorted. That was as good as admitting Phil’s pastimes. He was probably an aspiring pickpocket, though I hadn’t seen notes regarding that come up on Carver’s old maps. The local thief types were scattered across the town. Occasionally confusion crossed my addled brain when I tried to picture how one town could be so crisscrossed with all these personalities.

  “Come on in, Mister Carver. I’ll have the boys clear the nice seat so you can rest your old bones.” Mylia stepped into another room and motioned me forward with a free hand.

  “Thanks, Mylia.”

  This orphanage was the most rundown place I’d seen yet. The building wasn’t well-kept like most of the businesses and houses. Paint peeled, one window was clearly shattered from a rock or something similar, and the furniture inside wasn’t that great either.

  “Phil! Bring whatever you acquired from Mister Carver back out here!”

  “It’s for everyone,” I muttered while shuffling through to where Mylia pointed absently.

  “Hear that, Phil!” Mylia was being far louder than I’d ever heard her, but she was trying to out-power a room of children.

  The linens looked decent, and that was positive. Mylia probably kept the place washed, judging by how often I’d seen her back and forth with armloads of laundry and other supplies.

  “Phil!”

  Soon enough, Phil showed himself. This was the same little scamp I’d seen running after Mylia all over town. He still looked worn and tired. His eyes reflected a sunken exhaustion. Probably from running the streets all night in order to find valuables. Food perhaps? He was clearly shoveling a cookie into his face, looking the happiest I’d seen the little man.

  “Share those.” I waved the cane at the youngster and earned a few points toward progress.

  Phil got wide-eyed and tried to smile around a mouthful of goodness.

  “Guys!” Phil shouted and spilled crumbs.

  “They got a bedtime?”

  “Curfew, but a bedtime? For this many kids?” Mylia laughed briefly, then scowled and whipped one of the little ones with her towel. The girl was trying to grab a handful of cookies instead of sharing.

  “I’m lucky if I can get them to be quiet and let me sleep.”

  “Kids.”

  “The older ones help, but it’s never enough. Shawna! Round up the rest of the littles! Mister Carver’s here!”

  Orphanage Mylia was different than aboutthe-town Mylia. Walking through town, she seemed to have all the time in the world. Yet here, she was pressed and constantly moving from room to room.

  “Wa are yoo gonna tell us, Uncle Carver?”

  I had to blink twice and rerun the tiny girl’s voice through my mental filters. She was extremely young—three or four, if that. Emotionally that put me on edge.

  “Help an old man remember—what did I tell you last time?”

  “You did the beast one!”

  “And the girl with talking cabinets and teacups!”

  That sounded like a familiar story.

  “What else?” I prompted other children.

  They were gathering around, jostling for a seat. Older kids were busy dragging in more furniture to sit on.

  “There was the furry monster in the closet. You told us that one last time too! Can you do that one again?”

  That also sounded familiar.

  “Maybe. I should really do something new though. What else?”

  “You told us about the princess and a frog,” an older girl said. She sounded about eight, but looked five.

  Okay, pattern established. Carver was telling stories from our world. That was cute and almost adorably clever. Walt would be proud to know his legacy had reached into another universe.

  “How about ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears’?” I asked.

  “Uh uh,” the younger girl said. She was being pushed by another tiny child grasping at her half-eaten cookie.

  “I can do that one, but it’s a short story, and I owe you a bit to make up for my absence.”

  “‘Thumbelina’!”

  I smiled and tried to let my ignorance show through. Vaguely I remembered the story had to do with a tiny girl raised by her normal-sized parents.

  “Sounds like that’s not a new one.” Oh, I got a point toward my progress for suggesting we do something unknown to the orphans.

  “Some of the younger kids might not have heard it.” An older boy who was maybe twelve helped out the conversation. “Or the one with a princess and those fairy godmothers.”

  I ran everything through my brain. Children’s stories weren’t high on my list of things to remember. There were animal ones, princesses, tons from all over the board. “Cinderella” had been redone at least a dozen times.

  I added “The Princess and the Pea” to story time and unleashed my best “confused old man who rambled a little” upon the orphanage’s children. They laughed and smiled, asked questions, and were in general extremely silly children. It was a blast, and judging by my progress bar, Carver thought so as well.

  Finally, the night wrapped up, Mylia ushered children off to rooms and set the older ones about final chores. Fairly well-behaved, they were quiet, aside from the scrubbing of dishes and what sounded like firewood being chopped.

  “Well-behaved.” I sat alone in a room that had once housed two dozen young faces. Mylia constantly sounded exasperated with them, but she did a good job.

  “Only because you were here. They’re always well-behaved for a few days afterward.”

  “Sounds like I should visit more.” I was feeling extremely worn out. Children had too much energy for me to keep up. Somehow before I’d started my stories, the three-year-old had ended up on my knee.

  “No one here would be opposed,” Mylia said.

  “I’ll visit more then, for as long I have left.” William Carver might not last past the two weeks I was playing the NPC. Not if the Voices were anything to judge by.

  “What do you mean by that, Mister Carver?” She looked worried.

  My eyes were getting harder to keep open by this point. The kids had been entirely too adorable; even the older ones seemed pleasant. Thin and underfed, but they were all-around good kids. Maud would be proud to see those abandoned being taken care of.

  “Mister Carver? Is it true then? What the Messenger’s Pet means?”

  “Huh?” I was losing myself. Old Man Carver’s stamina bar had dwindled to nothing, and I
received a warning about exhaustion and pending passing out.

  “What’s this?” Mylia looked confused.

  Behind my head, the small creature had popped out. I had enough time to see a scroll in its maw. My halfhearted check for drool verified the parchment was unsoiled.

  “What’s this?” she asked again.

  I shrugged and faded in and out. She was reading something. A poem?

  “‘Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and sorry I could not travel both.’”

  That sounded familiar. I remembered those words and mouthed the next part, being half functional.

  “‘And be one traveler, long I stood and looked down one as far as I could, to where it bent in the undergrowth.’”

  Poor Carver. His body could barely get a few words out before needing to swallow from a dry throat.

  “What is this?” She seemed even more confused.

  “Life. Keep reading, Mylia. You’ll like it.”

  We weren’t speaking in English, but from what I’d heard, the poem translated fine. Frost wrote it, and they were good words for a sad moment. Her voice was pleasant. How long had it been since I’d heard a woman speak these words? Last time it had been my fiancée, and she’d read this same poem right before her trip. Sleepily, I scowled. Continue was screwing with me again.

  “‘To where it bent in the undergrowth. Then took the other, as just as fair, and having perhaps the better claim, because it was grassy and wanted wear. Though as for that the passing there had worn them really about the same.’” Mylia sounded in wonder, confused, and slightly pleased. There were pauses when she’d read the poem and restart.

  I could hear children moving around in the background listening in on the words.

  My [Messenger’s Pet] friend huffed and searched around the room for cookie crumbs. After running out of scraps, he crawled into Carver’s lap to sleep. I wanted to throttle him but settled for a stiff pat.

  “‘And both that morning equally lay in leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.’”

  She paused. “What does this mean?”

  “Keep reading,” I grumbled.

  “‘I shall be telling this with a sigh, somewhere ages and ages hence. Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.’”

  “What do you think it’s about, Mylia?” Carver never gave away too much information, not even to Mylia.

  “I don’t know,” she responded.

  Briefly, James’s deliberate response came to mind.

  “It’s about choices and where they lead,” I explained.

  “What choices have you made, Mister Carver?” Mylia leaned in closer. The blue wrap around her head swam into view.

  “Many, Mylia, so many, good and bad… I’ve made…”

  Then blackness overcame my senses. My display still existed. A gold lettered message saying, “You are Unconscious” floated into being across the black backdrop.

  What was going on now? This felt like being back in the trial room before everything had been revealed. I’d always logged out before William Carver passed out each night. Passing out now was good, because I needed a breather.

  What had I been about to tell Mylia? My life mistakes and where I’d ended up? Or Carver’s? The line between the former player and me had decreased the longer I’d lived in his shoes. That poem hadn’t helped. Where had the [Messenger’s Pet] dug that up?

  “Grant Legate.” A voice I hadn’t heard in nearly two weeks echoed across my mind. Deep resounding tones combined with that inquisitive lilt painted a clear picture of who was speaking.

  “James?” I asked.

  “Grant Legate. How are you feeling?”

  Seeing James was impossible with my vision dimmed. The taunting word “unconscious” had slowly become my only focus.

  “Tired.” I wiped at one cheek absently, finding a small pool of drool. “Very tired. Is it okay if I don’t come back for a few days? I need-need to not be here for a while.”

  “Time is a factor, Grant Legate, but I believe there is a little leeway.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you all right?” James asked.

  I thought of the kids, and of roads not traveled, before nodding weakly. Shortly afterward, I logged myself out of the game

  .

  Session Eleven — Outside the Digital Box

  “Liz?” Come on, for once don’t sound like a wounded puppy. Please let these words come across like a sane and stable person’s. Focus on a happy place. Try not to wonder what my unborn child would look like. Their mother’s eyes perhaps?

  Breathe.

  “What’s up, little brother?” Liz had the decency not to notice my plight.

  “Is tonight a good night?”

  “Ummmm… it can be. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I need family for a meal. I won’t impose for more than dinner.” Liz had set up an open-house ruling after I moved out. One of the counselors suggested having a safe place would be helpful.

  “Sure. I’ll kick Beth out of the machine and scrape something together.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be over in a few hours. I need to check in first.” Time to take another breath and focus on the mental exercises I’d learned over a year and change.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Finally, some worry wound around her tone. The slight tilt of her head on the video screen was all the hint I needed. She was my twin; her mannerisms were my own. Hiding my state of mind from her had always been impossible.

  “I’ll be okay. I had some painful reminders recently.”

  “All right. You make it over when you can, Grant.”

  The connection closed down, and Liz’s worried face faded. I moved my gaze from the watch phone amalgamation to my ARC. Inside the Atrium was a nearly serene bedroom, minus the tiny [Messenger’s Pet] fighting with a tube from my hot tub program. His hissing and water shooting around was beyond me right now. One day I’d finally figure out a name for the creature. Assuming he hung around past the next two game weeks of this William Carver experience.

  I am Grant Legate. I am not William Carver.

  Maybe it was good to step out of the game for a bit anyway. This otherworldly persona, the time compression and rate of existence was killer on my sanity. How did other players handle it? Oh, right, they got to play themselves, not an NPC.

  I’d have to be careful around Beth.

  The van ride over was easy enough. I researched the very same topic I’d given Awesome Jr.

  Information was surprisingly mixed. A few books talked about how people organized their thoughts when making choices. More articles and paper synopses talked about ways to sort out a mind.

  What got to me was the old Aesop’s fable about “The Fox and the Cat.” According to the story, the fox bragged about having hundreds of ways to escape, while the cat could only climb up a tree. When trouble came, the cat escaped, and the fox was caught by the hounds due to being too confused by his possible escapes. Too many choices lead to mental paralysis and failure in applying action. That was why so many players seemed confused on where to start, which was where the Traveler’s Guide Old Man Carver, in this case, came into play. Yet my job wasn’t so simple. I couldn’t treat each and every single player the same.

  Welcome to Continue, here’s a quest to fetch apples! Congratulations, new player, this is the farm! We have a varmint problem! Stop those rats! Collect those candles! Do a special move seven times! The player’s reward? A boring pie! Oh, this player got the goblin boss! Way to swing your sword! Here, a plus-ten weapon of great smiting!

  Personality mattered excessively in Continue. These were real people interacting with the nearly real computer-generated AIs. The responses I gave as a guide had to be custom tailored.

  My ride to Liz’s was interrupted by a call to my sponsor, touching base and saying that things were going well. Thes
e thoughts about Continue had managed to occupy a pleasant portion of my life. It wasn’t good or bad in the end, but James had promised a distraction.

  My therapist had warned me I’d see all sorts of little things and link them to past experiences. The problem was exposing myself to new sensations would cause me to remember darker moments. Despite the ease with which depression swam over me, I’d existed for a while in-game now. Most days passed with very few painful reminders and without the need to work myself into mental numbness. This was progress.

  At some point I ended at Liz’s and was sitting in front of dinner. It felt like my mind had been sleep walking the entire trip over. Beth babbled away about the game world and I tried to pay attention.

  “Uncle, you’re saying you’ve been playing for two weeks and haven’t fought a single monster?”

  “I gave a target dummy a mean stare and some good whacks. Oh, I ran from some spiders too.” Voices damn those spiders. Peg’s constant uses of the imitation swear had been ingrained into my brain.

  “You’re going to be a warrior?”

  “Yeah. I can see me, lovable Uncle Grant, wielding a big old sword and inspiring fear in tiny bunnies!”

  My sister had the nerve to laugh and almost coughed out her food.

  “So pure warrior?”

  Sometimes I worried about my relationship with Beth. She often treated me like an older brother rather than an uncle. It might be because of how her mom and I acted, or some other psychological dynamic that was beyond my understanding. Still, she was never shy about her excitement over Continue.

  “I don’t know. Is that good?” Continue did have far too many choices. Maybe Beth would have good ideas.

  “Can we not talk about games while having dinner?” Liz was still trying to recover from her amusement.

  “But Uncle Grant’s new to the game. It’s good for him to learn!”

  “Uh huh. How are the potatoes?” Liz asked.

  “Good, Liz, thanks.” My smile must have driven Liz crazy. She was becoming more like our mother with every passing day and mom always grumbled about my grins in response to a question.

  “Anytime,” she said.

  “So what class do you want to be?” Beth asked around another mouthful of food.