Free This Book Does Not Exist by Mike Schneider

Sorry.”
    Before I can argue, he nudges me forward. “I’ll see you soon,” he says, delivering a push, and that’s all it takes, I have left this world.

ALONE
     

 
 
    I don’t think that was Naomi. I need to talk to Geppetto more, but the Door is already closed. I yank on the handle. I throw my shoulder into it over and over. But no matter what I do I can’t get it open, adding credence to the idea that Geppetto alone can determine when it is and isn’t unlocked.
    I can try talking to him through Facebook . Since I had a bar of service near my car earlier, I go outside, sit in the driver’s seat and wait to regain it. When I do, I message Geppetto, contradicting what he said about Naomi.
    I wait for what ends up being hours. I take most of the Vivarin leftover from my drive across country to stay awake. The morning comes.
    He doesn’t reply.
    I start the car and begin to turn around. Flakes of bright light ping pong around the entrance to Geppetto’s , distracting me for a moment. I stop mid-turn. The rising sun must be reflecting off of something shiny, probably a piece of scrap metal, suffering from nostalgia for what it once was or dreaming of what it might become again if salvaged.
    I check my phone again.
    Nothing.
    I drive away.

 
 
    I stop at a gas station to buy something to eat. I pull five different types of Nutri -Grain bars off the rack and add them to a carton of orange juice from the fridge. When I get to the counter, the sales clerk won’t meet my eyes. I presume my appearance is deteriorating as much as my mental state.
    Outside, I sink to the curb and eat all of the Nutri -Grain bars. I down the orange juice next. Then I leave.
    At some point, I pull off the side of the highway and fall asleep.

WHEN I WAKE UP
     

 
 
    My phone is ringing. I stare at the screen. My parents are calling. I pick up the last possible moment before it goes to voicemail.
    Both my mom and my dad are on the line. They heard from my brother. Why am I not in LA? Isn’t Naomi there? My dad mentions that Tim hasn’t been able to get in touch with her either. They want to know where we are, what we’re doing, and if we’re okay. I only tell them I’m alone.
    I’m pretty sure they can sense something is wrong. Consequently, they ask if I’m in Ohio. I guess Tim told them, or maybe they know home is the only place to go when you’re lost and damaged. I reveal I’m just outside of Cleveland. I confess “strange things” have been going on, an understatement for the ages. I leave it at that. I tell them I’ll come and visit. Before they can ask any more questions, I hang up. I have no idea how to talk to them, or anyone, about the Door .
    The puzzle pieces of last night space out in front of me as I continue to creep away from the lingering haze of slumber. Slowly, they fit together, and my brain reconstructs the state of play.
    I pull Naomi’s number up on my phone. Now that I’m awake, so too are all my anxieties about what Geppetto said. What if she is falling out of love with me? Can I catch her before she’s gone?
    I tap her number with my thumb.
    Rather than the sound of a ring, I get an automated message from a non-descript voice saying the number is no longer in service.
    I try again. The same thing.
    I contemplate if this could have anything to do with me not reaching the motorcade in time. I start biting my nails, another bad habit that gives my fingers the look of a carpenter or factory worker, someone who does manual labor for a living.
    I drive to a rest stop.
    I fiddle with my phone while I’m walking from my car, belaboring what I could/should write on Twitter, when a new notification comes in from Facebook .
    It’s a friend request from “Kirsten,” the girl I met at Joe’s birthday party in LA.

“KIRSTEN”
     

 
 
    I’m inside the rest stop, leaning over a table near a Starbucks, attempting to snag a Wi-Fi connection for my phone, which has voice coverage but no data. The