Free M Is for Magic by Neil Gaiman

“Well, yeah. I guess.”
    â€œWhat’s it like? Being dead?”
    â€œI don’t mind it,” admitted Dearly. “Worst thing is not having anyone to play with.”
    â€œBut there must be lots of people up in thatmeadow,” said the Runt. “Don’t they ever play with you?”
    â€œNope,” said Dearly. “Mostly, they sleep. And even when they walk, they can’t be bothered to just go and see stuff and do things. They can’t be bothered with me. You see that tree?”
    It was a beech tree, its smooth gray bark cracked with age. It sat in what must once have been the town square, ninety years before.
    â€œYeah,” said the Runt.
    â€œYou want to climb it?”
    â€œIt looks kind of high.”
    â€œIt is. Real high. But it’s easy to climb. I’ll show you.”
    It was easy to climb. There were handholds in the bark, and the boys went up the big beech like a couple of monkeys or pirates or warriors. From the top of the tree one could see the whole world. The sky was starting to lighten, just a hair, in the east.
    Everything waited. The night was ending. The world was holding its breath, preparing to begin again.
    â€œThis was the best day I ever had,” said the Runt.
    â€œMe too,” said Dearly. “What you going to do now?”
    â€œI don’t know,” said the Runt.
    He imagined himself going on across the world, all the way to the sea. He imagined himself growing up and growing older, bringing himself up by his bootstraps. Somewhere in there he would become fabulously wealthy. And then he would go back to the house with the twins in it, and he would drive up to their door in his wonderful car, or perhaps he would turn up at a football game (in his imagination the twins had neither aged nor grown) and look down at them in a kindly way. He would buy them all—the twins, his parents—a meal at the finest restaurant in the city, and they would tell him how badly they had misunderstood him and mistreated him. They apologized and wept, and through it all he said nothing. He let their apologies wash over him. And then he would give each of them a gift, and afterward he would leave their lives once more, this time for good.
    It was a fine dream.
    In reality, he knew, he would keep walking, and be found tomorrow or the day after that, and go home and be yelled at, and everything would be the same as it ever was, and day after day, hour after hour until the end of time he’d still be the Runt, only nowthey’d be mad at him for having dared to walk away.
    â€œI have to go to bed soon,” said Dearly. He started to climb down the big beech tree.
    Climbing down the tree was harder, the Runt found. You couldn’t see where you were putting your feet and had to feel around for somewhere to put them. Several times he slipped and slid, but Dearly went down ahead of him and would say things like “A little to the right, now,” and they both made it down just fine.
    The sky continued to lighten, and the moon was fading, and it was harder to see. They clambered back through the gully. Sometimes the Runt wasn’t sure that Dearly was there at all, but when he got to the top, he saw the boy waiting for him.
    They didn’t say much as they walked up to the meadow filled with stones. The Runt put his arm over Dearly’s shoulder, and they walked in step up the hill.
    â€œWell,” said Dearly. “Thanks for coming over.”
    â€œI had a good time,” said the Runt.
    â€œYeah,” said Dearly. “Me too.”
    Down in the woods somewhere a bird began to sing.
    â€œIf I wanted to stay—?” said the Runt, all in aburst. Then he stopped. I might never get another chance to change it, thought the Runt. He’d never get to the sea. They’d never let him.
    Dearly didn’t say anything, not for a long time. The world was gray. More birds joined the first.
    â€œI can’t