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She gasped.

Stepped back.

The strangest scene was set before her.

Alice couldn’t understand why everything was so different so suddenly, but it had been her movements—however small—that disturbed the land of Still, and now she stood facing all of its occupants: A sea of citizens had appeared in silent protest.

There were ladies, ladies, everywhere.

They wore suits. An orange pantsuit here, green over there, purple in one corner, red in another. They were a rainbow of ladies sitting perfectly still on stools and tables and crates and benches, on sidewalks and steps and bicycle seats. Hundreds of them.

And they were all, every one of them, staring at her.

“Oliver?” Alice could feel him standing beside her, but she was afraid to break eye contact with the ladies. “Oliver,” she whispered. “What do we do?”

He said something so quietly she could hardly hear him.

“What?” She glanced in his direction.

The ladies gasped. Round eyes and round mouths gaped at her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t—”

More gasps. Horrified faces. Stunned silence.

Alice was starting to grow nervous. Apparently speaking was not allowed in Still. No speaking, no moving, no disruptions at all. (This was all an assumption, of course, as Alice didn’t know the first thing about Still, or anything at all, in re: what she was or wasn’t allowed to do here, as Oliver [as usual] appeared to be no help. He hadn’t prepared her a stitch for what to expect in Still, and if they were eaten alive by a group of angry young ladies—well, Alice thought—he would have no one to blame but himself.)

Now, before we get to what Alice did next, allow me first the opportunity to defend her actions. In retrospect I realize her decision wasn’t very constructive, but she wasn’t going to stand still for all of eternity (after all, she had Father to think of) so I will say this: In my opinion, her decision was—at least in the moment—a realistic one:

She took a few steps forward.

Someone screamed. Something shattered. Alice knew immediately that she’d made a mistake, but in her haste to correct the error, she made a few more. She scrambled backward, trying to undo what she’d done, but the more she moved, the more it disturbed the ladies of Still, and soon they were shrieking, all of them, screaming and howling and pulling at their hair, their clothes. They raked their fingers down their faces and drew blood, shed tears, and lost themselves in crazed, choking sobs. (Alice felt like crying, too, but for very different reasons.)

The ladies had begun to stand now, but slowly. Their eyes, openly weeping, never left Alice’s face, and the sight of it all was so monstrous that Alice’s poor heart nearly quit. The ladies’ movements were so careful, so slow and methodical, that it was all somehow worse. It would be a slow death, Alice thought, a careful torture, an agony she could not scream through. Terror had so thoroughly overtaken her she was afraid to breathe.

“Alice, run!”

Oliver grabbed her hand and they charged through Still, destroying every bit of composure the village had carefully preserved. They tore through leaves that then crashed to the ground; they whipped through raindrops that broke on their faces and splashed down their necks; they plowed through snowflakes that caught in their hair and clung to their clothes.

The ladies sprang after them.

“Faster!” yelled Oliver. “We must go faster!” And though Alice wanted to kick him in the feet and tell him she was running as fast as she possibly could, she was also in the unfortunate position of being unable to breathe, and so decided to save her quips for a better time. She pushed herself, one small leg after another, to climb up the very high hill that led to the only street that ran through Still and tried very hard not to focus on the fact that they were probably going to die. Admittedly, she was not very good at this.

The ladies of Still were close behind. They were screeching in pain, no doubt agonized by all this exercise that had been forced upon them, and Alice was crying—albeit only a little—but mostly because she was so desperately tired, and because she thought she should very definitely stop running lest her lungs should shatter. But no matter, the ladies of Still did not give a fig about Alice’s lungs, and so her legs and lungs would have to soldier through, whatever the cost.

Oliver’s hand was wrapped tightly around hers, and he was nearly dragging her up the main street now. Alice had no idea how he was managing all this and still carrying the pocketbook, but she was in no position to ask or even offer any help, as she realized rather quickly that the black stone with which this road was paved was in fact quite slippery, and she was already doing all she could to stay upright. They skidded as they ran, slipping and stumbling and holding on to each other for dear life.

The ladies were now silent as snow, catching up to them even without their realizing it, and Alice turned back just in time to catch a glimpse. They were running on tiptoe, knees up and knocking into their chests, and they looked so ridiculous Alice was almost ready to laugh. In agony. Ridiculous though they may have looked, at least they knew what they were doing; these ladies had mastered the road while Alice and Oliver only struggled to survive it. The two children staggered and slipped, constantly readjusting, never fully regaining their footing.

All seemed lost.

Alice’s legs felt as though they were melting beneath her, and if Oliver ever said a word to her, she could not hear him. Her breaths, hard and rasping, were all she knew, and the pounding in her chest had spread up to her head and down her arms and she was so blinded by pain that she could hardly see.