James Dashner - The Journal of Curious Letters

“I’m large, okay?” the man said, though he barely came to Tick’s waist. His voice was normal with no accent or strange pitch. Tick didn’t know why that surprised him so much, but then he realized he’d been expecting the guy to sound like one of the Munchkins from The Wizard of Oz.

So much for not judging others on their looks.

The short man continued, “And I must be the dumbest fat guy you’ll ever meet, because I wore all black to camouflage myself in a place that is covered in snow. ”

Tick stared, with no idea how to respond.

“My name is Rutger,” the stranger said, holding a hand up toward Tick. “My hand might be the size of your big toe, but don’t be scared to shake it. Nice to meet you.”

Tick reached down and clasped Rutger’s hand, shaking it very gently.

“What’s that?” Rutger asked. “Feels like I’m grabbing a floppy fish. You think I’m made of porcelain or something? Shake my hand if you’re gonna shake my hand!”

Tick gripped harder and shook, completely amazed by this new person. He finally spoke back. “Sorry. I’m just a little surprised. I didn’t know…”

“What? That I’d look like a shrunken Sumo wrestler? Come on, let’s sit and talk awhile. This weight is killer on my tiny legs.” Rutger didn’t wait for a response, walking over to the porch steps and taking a seat on the bottom step. Even then, his feet barely touched the ground in front of him.

Tick smiled, finally feeling at ease, and joined Rutger on the steps. “So, you’re friends with Mothball, right?”

Rutger slapped his round belly. “You betcha I am! That tall stack of sticks is the best friend a man can have, even if she is three times my size. Well, up and down, anyway, if you know what I mean.” He raised his hand vertically, as if guessing the height of something. “Ah, Mothball’s a funny one if you get her going. Word to the wise though. Don’t ever ask her about the day she and her twin sis were born unless you have about seven days with nothing else to do but sit and listen.”

Tick grinned. “I’ll remember that. Why’d you throw those rocks at me?”

“Why were you late?”

“I… uh, good point. Slept in.”

Rutger looked at Tick intently, searching for something. “Looks like you forgot your assignment, too.”

“I did? What-” Then Tick remembered the poem and what it had asked for. He’d meant to scrounge around in the basement to find some old shoes and mittens. “Oh, never mind-you’re right, I forgot. Sorry.”

Rutger slapped Tick on the shoulder. “It’s okay, I can wait.”

“Huh? You mean…”

“That’s right, big fella. Come back with what I asked for and maybe I’ll talk.”

Tick paused before responding, hopeful that Rutger would wink and say he’d only been kidding. “You’re… serious?”

Rutger leaned closer like a giant rubber ball rolling forward. “I’ve been to more places in the last two weeks than you’ve seen in your whole life, boy. My shoes are just about ready to call it a day and walk off my feet-no pun intended, though that was a pretty good one. And my hands-cold, young man, cold. ”

“You mean, the shoes and mittens are for you? ”

“Who else, boy? Do you think I’d be traipsing around the Realities with a little child stuck to my hip? Of course they’re for me!” His voice had risen considerably, and Tick worried his dad would hear.

“Don’t talk so loud. You’ll wake the whole neighborhood.”

Rutger answered in an exaggerated whisper. “You won’t hear another peep from me until I’m holding a nice new pair of shoes and a warm-as-muffins pair of mittens.” He nodded curtly and folded his arms.

Tick stood up. “I’ll go-but what did you mean when you said the Realities?”

“Oh, come on, boy. It’s all about the kyoopy-science, Chi’karda, Barrier Wands!”

Tick stared, wondering if anyone in history had ever answered a question as poorly as Rutger just had. “What are you talking about?”

Rutger put two fingers together and swiped them across his lips, the age-old sign for zipping one’s mouth shut.

“Fine,” Tick muttered. “Be back in a minute.”

He walked up the porch steps and opened the front door. Just before he stepped into the house, Tick heard Rutger say something creepy.

“Good. Because when you get back, we need to talk about dead people.”

Tick wasted five minutes searching for the box in the basement where his old clothes were stored-the ones his mom couldn’t bear to part with. He finally spotted it and pulled almost everything out before he found a pile of shoes of varying sizes. He chose three pairs that seemed the closest to Rutger’s size, then rummaged through everything else again, searching for mittens or gloves. He found nothing.

He walked back upstairs, still doing his best to keep quiet, and dove into the closet holding all of their winter clothing. He finally came across a pair of yellow mittens his grandma in Georgia had knitted out of yarn a long time ago. They’d been his once, but Kayla had been wearing them ever since she destroyed her own pair in the fireplace. Tick tried not to laugh at the thought that they should fit Rutger just perfectly.

I can’t believe I have a Hobbit in my own front yard.

Holding in a snicker, he went outside.

“Oh, those will do just fine. Just fine! Thank you.” Rutger hurriedly pulled on the mittens, then replaced his worn shoes with a pair of sneakers that Tick must’ve grown out of very quickly because they still looked relatively new.

“Glad to be of service,” Tick said, settling on the step beside his new friend. He shivered from the cold and tightened his scarf around his neck. “Now I think you had a lot to tell me? What was that about dead people?”

The little man rubbed his newly wrapped hands together and leaned against the step behind him. “Ah, yes, dead people. There’s a phrase that Mas-” He caught himself before saying anything else, looking at Tick with guilt written all over his face.

“What?” Tick asked.

“Oh, nothing… nothing. I was just going to say that there’s something a good friend of mine always says: ‘Nothing in this world better reflects the difference between life and death than the power of choice.’ Says that all the time, my friend does.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

Rutger looked at him intently. “What’s your name, son?”

“Atticus Higginbottom. Or Tick.”

“Yes, that’s right.” Rutger pulled out a notepad and pencil from his pocket, then started scanning it, much like Mothball had done. “There you are, and there we go.” He wrote a checkmark next to Tick’s name, then put the pad and pencil back into his pocket. When he pulled his hand out, this time he was holding a yellow envelope. “I believe you’ve been expecting this.”

“The fourth clue?”

“You got it.”

He handed the envelope to Tick, who immediately ripped it open then pulled out the cardstock containing the next message from M.G. Before he could read it, Rutger placed a pudgy hand on top of the clue.

“Remember what I said about dead people, young man.”

“What exactly did you say?”

“Well, nothing really, now that you mention it. Wasn’t supposed to say much, anyhow. It’s for you to figure out.”

“You’ve really cleared things up for me, Rutger, thank you.”

The round man’s eyes narrowed. “Do I sense a hint of sarcasm?”

Tick laughed. “Not just a hint.” He pulled the message out from under Rutger’s hand. “May I please read this now?”

Rutger waved a hand. “Read to your heart’s delight.”