The Journal of Curious Letters (The 13th Reality #1) by James Dashner Page B

like a baby and come out.”
    The bush rustled again, then a small figure stepped out from behind the branches. It was impossible to make out details in the scant light, but the person looked like a little kid, maybe six or seven years old, bundled up in layers and layers of clothes. He or she resembled nothing so much as a big round ball with little bumps for arms and legs and a head.
    “Who are you?” Tick asked, standing up and stepping closer. “Are you the one who left me the note on the sign?”
    The little person walked toward him, waddling like an overweight duck. A shaft of moonlight broke through the clouds just as the visitor reached a spot a few feet in front of Tick, revealing in vivid detail what he’d thought was a child.
    It was a man. A very short and very fat man.
    He was dressed all in black—black sweat pants and sweatshirt, black tennis shoes, black coat, black hat pulled over his ears. Tick’s dad had once made a joke that sweat suits were made for people to exercise in, but the only people who seemed to wear them were fat people like himself.
    Knowing all too well what it felt like to be made fun of, Tick always tried never to do it to anyone else. As the strange little round man walked up to him, Tick promised himself he would do his best to refrain from all known fat jokes.
    “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