William Royden

The sound of the air being knocked from my lungs had been delivered directly to the microphone when the camera twisted toward my face.

It had all been real.

There was just no sign at all of the cause.

And I remembered how Cording had told me that nothing could touch me here.

For a time, Cording and I did nothing but sit on Rosanda and watch the annual autumn festival that was taking place that weekend.

Robin Song's main street had been closed to traffic, and townspeople swirled all around us, smiling, laughing, doing all sorts of things.

Dozens of small booths and tables were set up, selling everything from homemade jewelry to old books to ethnic food.

Cording drank a cup of espresso he'd bought from a church group on the corner, and I tried to eat something.

We just watched all the people who were so unaware of what sort of place they really lived in.

I spotted a face I instantly recognized as I stood to stretch.

Across the street was the independent movie producer whom I had shot tape for ten months before.

I told Cording I would be back in a few minutes and walked over to talk to Trent.

We shook hands, and I asked him if he had wound up moving to Robinson, as had been his plan.

He said that he had.

His wife had been convinced by the town's charm when he'd driven her through it, and they'd bought a small house on the edge of town near the train station.

I asked him if he still liked the area as much, and he said that he did.

He'd been trying to get some time off to take a long vacation, though, because of a problem that had arisen with his eight-year-old son.

The boy had one day developed a severe case of agoraphobia.

He not only couldn't bring himself to go to school, but even going shopping with his mother or beyond the front yard made him feel afraid and sick.

It had happened overnight, and he wasn't able to tell anyone what had caused it.