John had not noticed the boy approaching.

“Who are you,” he asked, “or what do you represent?” John did notice that the man in the suit was still looking directly at him.

“Who I am is no more important than who he is,” said the boy, nodding toward the man in the suit. “What I’d like to know is why you don’t think I’m real.”

John’s nausea was subsiding. His sense of physical self was beginning to ebb as well as the sensations he was experiencing.

“Well,” he started, “you’re a young boy… or you appear to be. I figured that if this truly is Hell, then a boy your age couldn’t possibly have done anything horrible enough to put you here.”

The boy smiled. The man in the suit had still not changed his expression.

“And yet you chose me to stay,” the boy responded.

John continued. “I figured that if you’re not a real boy, you probably have more of a place here than I do.”

The boy smiled, and turned to the man in the suit. “He’s rough around the edges, but his heart’s in the right place. He’s coming with me.”