Home is not a far journey. I skip the ritual and take the elevator to the second floor. When I get to my dark little corner, it’s blessedly empty. I let the void take me, going wherever my brain takes me whenever I come here.

I come to only a couple of hours later, hearing school field trip shouts and giggles right outside the room. I sigh, feeling relieved and rested. Before I leave, I stand and dawdle, waiting for the kids in the room next to me to leave.

Giving the glass a quick scan, I’m shocked as I recognize a shard of stone. It’s a fragment from the cave, saved from destruction before the construction crew pressed on in the name of modernity.

I’ve been staring at it this whole time, never seeing it for what it was. I can almost feel Amun at the door, right where he was the first time I saw him. I will him to be there, smiling at seeing me discover the runes for myself.

I get out my phone and tap his name into the search bar again. At the subway station, he said he wouldn’t contact me again until I called. So I call him the only way I know how. I email him.

Evening falls early in the fall and it’s already dark outside when I leave The Met. I hit my well-worn path back to Hell’s Kitchen. I’m hungry and exhausted, feeling like I’ve been running a marathon rather than simply combing through information and experiencing a mental breakdown or visions or whatever happened to me in the lab.

Stopping for a hot pretzel, I look around. No Amun lingering behind a tree and glowering at me for not wearing his special jewelry. I sigh and tuck my bag deeper into the crook of my arm, getting ready to head across the park toward home.

I feel two ways about Amun’s absence. I need time to decompress and I’m glad he took my outburst on the subway platform seriously. Then again, there’s that throbbing in my chest. I have an intense desire to see him and hold his hands in mine while he tells me he knows. He knows who I am more than I know who I am. He sees who I am, who I was, and who I will be.

I want to get closer to him. I want to discover why he keeps headlining my dreams and visions. At this point, I’m certain the dreams and visions are more than a side effect of a crush.

The park is bustling with Friday evening energy. Runners scurry past. Groups of teens boast and push each other, gossiping over their phones. Horse carriages line up, ready for the couples who will inevitably end their evening with a romantic stroll and a picturesque engagement or two.

My mind is slowly relaxing among the hopeful masses when I feel a runner trying to pass me too closely. I try to step aside and stumble into the grass. The runner doesn’t stop, in fact, they take me down. I hear a dry hiss as sharp fingernails dig into my sides, slipping under my jacket and into my flesh. It’s happening fast and no one around me reacts.

I shove my fingertips into where I guess their eyes are and feel something wet. My attacker slides back slightly in surprise. Instinctively, I slip my hand into my purse and grab the bracelet while I scramble away.

Diving into the bushes, off the trail, I run blindly. I can hear them right behind me until I lose my balance and roll off a tall boulder in the bramble. Then I freeze. I can hear the attacker above me, taking deep sniffs of air like a godd*mned bloodhound.

I clasp the bracelet with both hands and think silent and invisible. The thing stalks off, I can hear it shuffling in the bushes. I push myself into the rock and clutch the bracelet tighter. Once the shuffling and sniffing shuffle away from me, I’m there for half an hour before I dare move.

Slinking through the bushes and jumping at every noise, I’m relieved to be back on the main path. I get a few startled looks and glance down to see my shirt has been torn to shreds on the sides and I’m bleeding from the attacker’s fingernails.

Calling the police about all of this hasn’t crossed my mind until now. Seeing the blood and knowing that my attacker could be anywhere, my hand lingers over the phone.

Then I think about what a wild story I have to tell. I didn’t see anyone attack me. No one even reacted on the busy sidewalk while it was happening. What would the police be able to do? I limp away from the park and hail a taxi on 5th Avenue.

Once I’m in the apartment, I start shaking. Blood sticks the last shreds of my blouse to my skin and I run the shower as I undress. The wounds are jagged and deep. I should head to the ER.

Instead, I shake and sweat as I wash the scratches and tape gauze over them. When I'm done, I carefully put an oversized sweatshirt on, wrap a blanket over my shoulders, and tenderly make my way back to the stairs. I climb up to the roof the conventional way, in too much pain to scramble through the skylight.

I can see the roof clearly tonight. It's empty but for the lone pipe that I tripped on nights before and a utility box. I gingerly sit, cross-legged against the box, my phone in my lap. No answer to my email yet.

Yesterday, I told Amun that I never wanted to see him again. While he should be the main suspect in the Central Park attack, his panicked expression on the subway steps make me think that he was worried about something of this exact sort happening. My sides burn in deep, serious pain and I can't keep it together any longer.

Wracking sobs come suddenly. The pain from my wounds, the confusion of my dreams and visions ever since touching the bracelet, the drama from the last few days, all of it pours out, and I press my knuckles to my eyes like a child. Waves of grief and pain wash over me and in the midst of another cry, I feel wide cold hands land, carefully on my shoulders.

"Petra, you're in pain. What happened?" Amun is there, on his knees in front of me, face bowed toward mine. I want to wrap my arms around his neck, despite the pain in my sides. His presence brings immediate comfort and I feel the tense shiver in my spine quiet and the knot in my stomach and throat loosen.

Instead of throwing myself into his body like I want to, my ego speaks first.

"I'm not sorry for yesterday. You crossed a line. You've been crossing lines since I first saw you."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry. I have impulses that aren't even close to civilized or sensitive". Amun crooks a finger under my chin to meet my eye, "Are you hurt?" he asks again.

I swallow once. Twice. I can't hold it in though. I burst into tears once more. Embarrassed and in pain, I nod.

"Something attacked me," I gasp. "Something in Central Park in the middle of a crowded path. I didn't even see them."

"And you got away," Amun says, lines creasing his forehead as he studies my face.

"I did. I did get away. I don't know how. They? It? Something chased me. I fell off a boulder, into a ditch and I thought they'd finish me for sure. But they just left. Is someone f*cking with me? Are you?"

"Petra. You’re in danger now that you’ve been in touch with the first rune. And I’m sorry because I put you in danger.” Amun sees a question on my face and caresses the back of my head.

“Please, this will take time to explain. Know that danger was coming for you, sooner or later, I just wanted to give you the power to fight it. Now, I need to see what’s wrong. Can you show me your wound?”

Amun helps me stand. I lift my sweatshirt gingerly, one side at a time. He touches the skin around the gauze with tender fingers. I don’t feel the need to flinch or move away. While the pain is still there, I feel safe in his hands.

“This needs to come off. I need to see the wounds,” Amun’s voice is hoarse. He helps me remove my sweatshirt and I stand in my bralette, my arms crossed lightly over my chest as he carefully removes the tape. He lets out a quick hiss when he sees the damage, mirror images on each side of my ribs.

“I have something that will help, Petra. But first-” he places my blanket back over my shoulders and steps back as he continues, “But first, I need you to understand that you’re entering a different reality. I’m sure you’ve guessed already. There’s more to life than you were led to believe. I think, somewhere inside, you’ve known this all along.”

And a loosening in my chest tells me that he’s right. I nod, grabbing onto the blanket and stepping forward, refusing to give up the intimate space between us. Amun puts up a finger and rifles through a messenger bag that’s leaning against the utility box that I hadn’t noticed before. He takes out a vial and uncorks it.

“This is going to taste strange. And then it’s going to feel strange. But those scratches aren’t going to heal without going to the hospital. Even then, I don’t know that they’ll be able to help if it’s infected in the way I think it might be infected. So I need you to drink this and I need you to drink it all.”

He’s staring at me with an intense expression. I find the strength to roll my eyes.

“Well thank God I know your name. I’ve been warned against taking drugs from strangers.”

I take the vial. Locking eyes with Amun, I down the thick, salty concoction in one gulp. A shudder takes over my body and I feel my legs go out from underneath me. Steady hands help me to the ground as I feel my world go black.