i

HE FINALLY MADE THE DECISION. HE GOT TO THE CORNER

and grabbed the package. As soon as it was in his hands he ran to the other side of
the street to ¥udy it. There on the black parcel, emboßed in sharp, red print was
the letters Æ.H. Arthur Edward Hannon. His name.
“How do they know me?” he cried. He had just moved to Brooklyn the day
before and knew no one at all. “What would they want to give to me?” he asked
desperately. Millions of thoughts raced through his mind. Drugs. Poisoned food.
A bomb.
He didn’t want to risk it. He ran to the construction sight next to his
apartment building and ran inside. He shoved the parcel into a hollow part of a wall
and sealed it with a few bricks that were lying around. Whatever happened now
would not affect him.

He ran out just in time to see his mother get hit by a car and killed.

ii
T HREE YEARS AGO, I RECEIVED A MYSTERIOUS PACKAGE. AND THREE YEARS
ago, I sealed it away inside an apartment wall. Three years ago, I watched my
mother die. One thousand and ninety-\ive days later, I receive the book again.
Yesterday, the apartment building next to mine was knocked down. And that is
when the parcel came back. Covered in dust, it lay in the rubble. A single beam of
moonlight shone upon the faded black paper, somehow not ripped or damaged in any
way at all. I grabbed it and slid it into my bag before anyone could see.
There was something about it that made me want to hide it. It was most
de\initely not a bomb, seeing as it would have gone off within the last three years.
But there are other poßibilities. I ran up to my room and sat on the floor, careful
to lock the door and close the blinds before I was to proceed. I took it out and
studied the package. Æ.H. Right there, clear as day.
“Art! Its time for diner!” hollered my father. I guess I will have to wait
until morning.

iii
I COULDN’T SLEEP. AS SOON AS THE FIRST RAY OF SUN SLICED THROUGH the
curtains of my bedroom window, I stepped out of my bed and tiptoed over to
ß = ss, ¥ = st
the guitar case in witch I had hidden the book. If my dad woke, I would never be
able to see it again.
It’s odd. I can’t believe that I had forgotten about is, and yet I did. I
reached into the guitar case. The package was cold and sent a shiver down my
spine. It weighed about a pound and was hard and rectangular. I took my
pocketknife, even though probably unnecessary, and slipped it under the paper. I
gingerly and cautiously pulled it across the wrapping, cutting a long narrow line
across. I slowly lifted the paper to reveal…
… a book.

iv
T HE COVER WAS BLACK AND LEATHER BOUND. THERE WAS NO TITAL
printed on it. I li\ted the cover to \ind out the name of the book. Arthur Edward
Hannon. That was it. No publishing company or copyright information, just my
name. I turned the ¥iff page and glanced at the table of contents. Fourteen chapters
labeled one to thirteen. I flipped the page onto what was titled: y O m O d I. there
were two words on the page: Rest, and Cry.
“What the heck?” I said out loud, quickly clapping my hand over my mouth
as if to pull the words back in, hoping not to wake anybody. I decided that if
someone came into my room, I would say that I am studying for a test that was
today. Just as I was turning the page, my alarm clock burst into loud beeping calls,
saying that I had to be at school in ten minutes. Running out the door with the
book hidden in my backpack, I realized something:
I did have a test today.

D m W

A T LUNCH, I SAT IN THE EMPTY CAFETERIA WITH THE BOOK IN MY HANDS,

flipping through the first few pages, the first three hundred or so paged dominated
by the words Rest and Cry. Suddenly, a sting went through my body and I dropped
the book. It opened to a page that was bookmarked, a bookmark that I had not seen
before. The page was titled y i3 m 10 d 9. Today was October ninth. 10/9
“What if m means month, and d means day?” I asked. “But what about y?”
Then it clicked. Y was year. Not the year it was, but how old I was. I was
thirteen years old! But how did the book know? Did someone bookmark the page
while I was gone?
“What’s that?” The voice came from behind, startling me. Arthur slammed
the book shut.
“Nothing.”
 “Are you so sure about that?” It was Henry. He was not a friend, but he
wasn’t an enemy either.
“It’s nothing,” replied Arthur in a hurried tone. “Just go away. I need to
study.”

v
A, D, C, C, A, B, D, A, B. THOSE WERE THE ANSWERS FOR THE TEST. I
knew that I would get a one hundred, for I knew the subject well. I also knew that
my teacher, Mr. Nicoli, was glairing at me. What I did not know was why. As
soon as the bell rung, I sprinted for the door. I was stopped by Mr. Nicoli’s arm.
“Stay,” he said. He took my test, which was on the table, and right before
my eyes, ripped it in half. Crossed between crying and punching, I didn’t know
what to do.
“I do not permit cheating in my class, mister Hannon.”
“I didn’t cheat,” I whispered. Just then he violently grabbed my arm and
pointed to it.
“I DON’T KNOW ABOUT YOU,” he yelled, “BUT I CALL THAT
CHEATING!” written on my arm were the letters α δ κ κ α β δ α β. I didn’t
know what they meant, but I copied them from the page of the Book marked for
today, along with the instructions “learn Greek” and “memorize”.
“DO YOU THINK THAT I DON’T KNOW GREEK? MY
NAME’S NICOLI FOR GODS SAKE!”
“I swear,” I whispered angrily, “I did not cheat!”
“FIVE DAYS DETENTION, PLUS A ZERO!”

vi
S ITTING DOWN AT DETENTION. READING. I CAN FEEL MR. NICOLI’S EYES
glairing at me from behind his copy of “The Athens Times” (of witch he probably
bought just to mock me). I’m reading the Book. My Book, flipped to today’s
date. One part is marked 12:00- read. How can this know? But right after read, it
says something else. Drop book, say sorry to Nicoli.
Just from the fright of reading the name of my teacher inside an old book
mage me automatically drop it. It made a large BANG on the marble floor of the
school building. I cringed.
“Sorry!”
“It’s alright, Just get back to work.”
 “Yes, Mr. Nicoli.” I lifted the book off the floor and open it to the
bookmark, only now it is on a different page, y 10 m 6 d 6. My mother died on June
sixth, when I was ten. The day I found the book. The instructions were these:
Stop mother from leaving house.
Underneath that was a small red stamp, which read failed.
Now I understand.

vii
T ODAY IS THE LAST PAGE. THE END. AFTER THIS, THERE IS NOTHING.
Written on the page was this: Hold on. What could that mean? Hold on as in
wait? Should I wait for another book to come or something?
I got into the subway station. Standing next to a pole, I looked down into
the tunnel to see if the train was coming. I didn’t see the man behind me, nor him
me. His bag pushed me as he let go of it. I fell into the tracks.

I should have held on to the pole.