“And who do you think that might be?” said the voice, except now from a distance.

John heard footsteps. He turned to follow their direction and saw an older man with a thick white beard and impossibly black suit approaching.

“You already know what I think, right?” asked John. He noticed for the first time that he wasn’t exactly there, in the traditional sense. He had a vague recollection of his own physical construct, but nothing beyond that.

“If I knew that,” the man responded wryly, “it would be likely that I am, in fact, exactly who you think I want you to think I am.” He folded his arms in front of him, pressing his fingertips together. “And the point would still be moot.”

“So what about me?” asked John. “Do I get to leave?” He sensed nausea.

“You’ve chosen for the boy you don’t think is real to stay in your place,” the man stated. “I’m afraid you’ll find, however, that things are not as straightforward as they may appear.”

“He’s right,” said a small voice close to them. It was the boy.