The Call

An empty hall

You put it under your arm. It is warm, the way paper is not.

“Leave the far end dark until somebody asks what is down there,” she says. “Then have it be something. That is the trick. That is the whole trick, honestly.”

The stall stacked with books

The stall where people are laughing

Walk to the far flame

In your arms

a decka deck of cards that turns strangers into a table by the third hand
a mapa map of a room nobody has built yet, with the furniture left to you
a rulebooka slim book whose pages rearrange to fit whatever world you open it in