Mycah, who had brought us here to watch Beatrice clean and complain for the last two hours, suddenly decided she wasn’t interesting anymore and whisked us away towards the woods where the fourth kid – the smallest – was just disappearing into the foliage.

To my surprise, he sprang back out – in reverse – followed by the other three. Another, taller, boy, a skinny girl, and lastly, a large, fit-looking boy who dwarfed the rest. They comically retraced their paths back up the street they had just walked down – soon disappearing out of our sight.

“What are you doing, Mycah?” I asked, knowing it was him that had hit the rewind button on them.

“We need to backtrack a smidge.” He said, rapidly bringing us to the door of an ordinary looking house in an unremarkable neighborhood. I wanted to comment on the hysterical gymnastics the children had performed as they moved backward through time, but there was no time for that, and Mycah would have probably just dismissed it off-hand anyway.

The girl was no longer amongst them, having backtracked into what I assume was her own home, along the way.

The two larger boys reverse-walked into this second house, while the little one became engrossed in an ant pile in the yard.

Mycah and I followed the two inside, but before Time resumed its normal flow, the largest boy went right back out the door. We did not follow him, and it did not occur to me that in a moment he would reappear at the kitchen door he had just reversed through. I did not see the scuffle that would ensue between the two boys in the house, as I was looking back over my shoulder at the smallest one they had left in the yard.

Mycah bid me focus on the middle-sized boy who had settled himself into a ratty old chair with a thick book. As Time resumed its normal flow, I could hear his thoughts, and the banging of the screen door at the back of the house as the largest boy returned.

I couldn’t imagine what could possibly be so important about a couple of kids, but then again, Beatrice Beagle didn’t seem that interesting, either. There was obviously some string that tied them all to Roana Ignah, but it seemed a very dull string, and I wished quietly that Mycah would just get on to the meat of the thing – whatever it was.

The middle-kid’s thoughts assailed me, suddenly, knocking my own wishful thinking right out of my noggin. He’ll be here soon! He told himself, panic beginning to grow in him. He’s going to say it! He had also heard the screen door. Its banging echoed through his muscles in the form of a shiver that shook him from head to toe.

His name was Sid Kennu, and the little house that we had been pulled back to belonged to his parents. It had two doors - one in the front and one in the back. The back door let out onto a small, rectangular deck that occupied a fifth of a small yard, which opened onto an alley where Sid’s parents parked the little electric that took them to and from work, to the grocery store, and anywhere else they needed to go. The front door opened onto a second, narrower yard that ended at a busy street with no parking. Why it was called the front door, when the primary mode of ingress and egress for Sid’s family and their visitors was through the other door, was something he had never thought much about. Other people had decided which door would be called which, and he had simply gone along with the convention. He was thinking about it now, though, not wanting to think about what the banging screen door heralded. Going along, he realized, was what he usually did. A feeling deep down inside his bones told him today would be no different.

Had Jireh – The largest boy, and his lifelong friend -  come in through the front door he might have seen his approach through the large front window his chair faced and prepared himself. As it was, his intrusive friend always came in the back door and through the kitchen, startling him, and signaling to his young, word-hungry eyes that their meal was at an end.

Don’t you say it, he warned, but the moment he thought it, the other boy said it – the phrase that always made Sid cringe.

“I’m going to write a great book, someday!” Jireh announced from the kitchen door, and there it was, Sid’s great dream expelled as a joke from the mouth of a friend. Jireh had stolen the idea from him soon after Sid had announced his own intention to write a great book to their little clique of friends. Only Jireh wasn’t serious about it like Sid was. For the larger, slightly older boy it was just a thorn he could use to poke his younger contemporary.

The younger male did not immediately put the book he was reading down in response, as it was a good book - so far - and one that he had been waiting some time to cast his eyes upon. He did not want to give it up just yet, or the idea that the other boy might just go away.

Jireh claims he’s going to be great at everything someday! Sid mused, knowing in his heart that if it was possible for anyone to be great at everything, Jireh stood the best chance of it. That knowledge annoyed him to his core, more so than Jireh did. Every day after class, and most weekends – if it wasn’t raining – Jireh would show up at Sid’s house looking to interrupt whatever Sid happened to be doing. If he were playing with his action figures, then Jireh would claim that he would someday be as strong as Sam the Sam the Strong, or as fast as Captain Whirlwind.

“C’mon! Toys are for babies!” He would coax, or “Trucks are for toddlers!” or “Reading is for old people!” It didn’t matter what Sid was doing, Jireh was against it and had something more interesting planned.

“You’re not going to write a great book, Sid. Reading them is as close as you will ever get!” Jireh taunted, stepping into the small living room that held the comfy chair where Sid did most of his reading.

He lay stretched across it in perfect juxtaposition to the intended use of its manufacturer. His scruffy head against one arm rest, while his furry feet dangled off the other. It was worn and stained from years of abuse, but he loved the feel and the scent of it.

It had been his favorite reading place for most of his youth; a place where he could lose himself in the myths and legends he so dearly loved. If it had been a reclining chair it would have been better, but it wasn’t. He made the most of it, nonetheless, reclining as best he could.

Those soft cushions were his own little corner of the world, where he could be alone in his mind. Which was his favorite place to be, of all the places he had ever been. His parents rarely bothered him here, except to occasionally remind him of some forgotten chore, or to let him know that dinner was on the table. No one bothered him here, really, except Jireh, of course.

“Do you know how I know that you will never write a great book?” The intruder asked, stepping closer. “Because you are a reader, not a doer, and readers never have any adventures of their own,” he said, not waiting for any response from the smaller male, Sid thought to argue with his friend, but deep down he knew Jireh was right - and he was clinging desperately to the hope that the older boy would just go away if he pretended not to notice him. The pad of Jireh’s feet growing closer to the chair signaled the futility of that hope.

“You only do things when I make you do them, Sid.” Jireh said, affirming that he would not go away, “And writers must first be doers, so that they have something to write about later.” It was a good point, Sid conceded that. Jireh was usually right, and he hated that about him. Especially since he considered himself to be the smart one among their group of friends. But Jireh was their leader for good reason. Sid conceded that, too. He was better than the rest of them at just about everything, except reading, of course - if you measured reading skill based on the number of books read, not how well someone read them. Even by that metric Sid considered himself to be a better reader than Jireh, because his comprehension of what he read was fairly high.

The only books he ever saw Jireh open were the textbooks he had to read to keep his grades up. In Sid’s mind, that made him an amateur reader.

“That’s why I am going to write the greatest book that has ever been written, Sid!” Jireh teased, getting closer. “Because I’m a doer.”

The back of the chair blocked him from the smaller boy’s line of sight. Sid’s eyes scanned out - away from the page of his book - expecting Jireh’s big head to appear over the chair back at any moment. It did not, and his mind was momentarily distracted by the pattern of the cloth that covered his favorite piece of furniture. Wagon wheels and an old, covered bridge on dirty brown fabric. The pattern repeating over and around the rounded corners of the creaking frame. The padding was bunched here, and barren there caused by the lack of concern with which its occupants mounted, dismounted, and rested on it. Years of squirming had pushed padding and fabric, both, to their breaking points. A slight tear on the armrest, under Sid’s head, stood as testimony to the abuse. But still, it was a beloved family heirloom.

“My book will be better than that trash you’re reading now,” Jireh breathed in Sid’s ear, startling his friend again. But not so much that he jumped from the realization that he did not appear where he was expected. He had sneaked around the side of the chair instead of leaning directly over the top of it. After many years of friendship, Sid had come to always expect Jireh to appear where he least expected him to be – unless it was sunny, in which case he could always be expected to be at Sid’s house, pestering Sid.

What does he do when it’s raining, he wondered, having never uncovered that aspect of his friend’s life. It hadn’t really mattered, except that rain guaranteed that Sid would finally be able to read in peace. Today was not a rainy day, though, and so it did not surprise Sid that Jireh was here, about to drag him outside to play. He only wished that - for once - his friend would recognize his right to read peacefully, regardless of the weather. It seemed like a small thing to ask, especially since Jireh had known that he was excitedly awaiting his chance to read this book, and he also knew that Sid had planned to purchase it this very morning on a shopping trip with his mother – who had finally given in to her son’s badgering and agreed to buy it for him, regardless of the calamity surrounding it. It was The Traveler – Roana’s travesty – and I was surprised that I had not noticed the title in the long moments we had been watching him. Sid’s mother had seen the movie that evolved from this book and was aware of the protests against it. But she and her husband had long believed that it was in the best interest of children to grow up as quickly as possible. In that spirit they allowed their son to delve into subjects that were taboo to most.

“Mycah.” I said, turning away from Sid and Jireh for a moment. “Beatrice told Ro’I that one of her students had already read The Traveler. Now this kid is reading it, too?”

“Beatrice was mistaken, Ravenna. Sid’s excitement to read his favorite author’s latest work was shared by him with his entire class on a daily basis for two weeks prior to its release. Beatrice, paying only half attention to him, thought that his excitement revolved around him already reading it. It is a mistake born of a failure in communication. That is all.” He pointed back to the scene, and as I turned to look at Sid and Jireh again, I noticed that they had frozen in place while we talked. A twist of Mycah’s wrist sent them back into action, and confirmed for me that he was the one controlling the flow of Time.

“If it were up to you, Sid, you would never leave this chair.” Jireh said, breathing heavily into Sid’s ear. “Your mind would waste away in someone else’s adventure, while your body died from inactivity. So, consider this my gift to you!” He smirked, as Sid turned his head slightly away, wanting not to give Jireh credit for anything. “Great books come from great stories, and great stories only come to those who do things. That’s why my book will be better than the one you’re reading, and someday you’ll thank me for getting you out of this chair and out of this house. Do you know how I know,” Jireh hissed, daring Sid to turn away from his book and face him.

The comfortable chair suddenly felt restrictive to Sid. I could sense it, and I’m sure Jireh did, too. The wide-open space of the living room seemed to shrink around the smaller boy. Jireh had backed him into a corner that only existed in his mind but was – nonetheless - a very real corner.

“I don’t want to play today, Jireh!” He protested. It was a vain attempt - he knew it, I knew it - and the larger boy barreled right through it.

“I know that my book will be better than the one you’re reading, Sid, because you wouldn’t put my book down to come outside and play, like you’re going to do with that one!”

Sid should have expected the snatch - I saw it coming - but his mind was focused on Jireh’s arrogance. In a split second the book was wrested from the smaller boy’s hands and was headed for the kitchen in the clutches of his older friend. This was a game that the two boys had played again and again over the course of their friendship. And so, in accordance with its unwritten rules, Sid was up in a flash and headed after his book, and his friend.

Get ‘im! I thought, urging on my underdog. Sid’s hurry became a frenzy, as if in response.

A momentary wisp of inspiration enticed him to wonder if perhaps today would be the day he found something to write about. Perhaps today Jireh would earn the thanks he claimed was his. What he found, instead, was that Jireh had slowed enough to allow him to catch up at the kitchen door. It was an obvious ruse, and one that Sid should have tried harder to avoid, but the younger boy knew how this game ended, and simply wanted to get through this next part as quickly as he could.