He was dying, dying in a cloud of snow and metal poles. Dying. Wet, cold, hurling, dying. Absolutely sick. Vomit. Not again. Not that machine again. But there were no buttons, no collars, no pockets, no socks. Then-

"BLEEEP!"

No, it wasn't an alarm clock. A truck horn sounded in the distance, reminding Randall once more that his new world was not completely impenetrable. He looked down at himself and realised he was waring no pyjama top. For some reason, he had taken it off in the night. It hung on the back of a chair in his room, folded in half. He got out of bed and remembered the reason for his dream, the reason why he was up so early, at -what?- 5 am. The ski trip.

He had signed all the consent forms a week ago. They included such things as if you got injured, would you want to have an operation, if necessary, to save your life. For Randall, this now seemed ridiculous, as it hadn't about 4 months ago. That was when he had reached an all-time low. That was the exiling.

He didn't think about it much more, partly because of his new job, delivering packages (which was beyond 14 year old Zera's strength) and partly because of Cally.

Cally. Ever since he had admitted his feelings for her, he had really lived. She had visited him every day in the hospital, bringing food that was food as a replacement for the yucky slop they normally served. Then, they would talk, share stories, views about life, etc. And she had promised him he'd be well enough to go skiing. Even though he had never skiied before, she assured him he'd be all right.

"Don't worry if you don't know a ski pole from a telephone pole. Most of us are newcomers. And there's no rule that says you can only ski. As long as it involves snow, go ahead."

Then she shook her head and smiled. "That includes snowball fights, which, thanks to my brothers, I am an expert at. I can cream your-"

"Oh, yeah?" he had taunted.

"Yeah. Coincidentally, I'm also a good pitcher in baseball. Which, if I hadn't been so darn scary, I probably would have gone out for."

"But then we wouldn't have met." Randall had said.

"Well, there's the ointment that the mother of all flies is hiding." She could really turn a phrase. Randall fancied reading her book someday. No doubt it was full of such delicious language.

They kissed briefly and then Cally had to leave for her shift. At the same time, Randall's cell phone went off, no doubt because someone wanted a package delivered. They got up and went their separate ways. Randall picked up his push cart and read the text message; "Gateway(clos). 2 pkgs."

All this meant was that he had two packages waiting for him to pick them up at the Gateway (mail door) in the closet. P.E. had actually (after much complaint by monsters who wanted to order packages as well as magazines) changed the location of the door to the closet so boxes could be delivered inside instead of being left on the small top step. This required them to also furnish at least the living room of the apartment so it wouldn't look weird to the delivery guys. The result looked lived in, right down to the trash, videos and DVDs on the floor. Which made sense, since it sometimes was; by Randall.

Having access to the Gateway was a privilege, and if Randall abused it, he didn't know this. There was no law that said one could not go in here for other reasons, and doubtless, nobody else ever did. It had become, however, an obsession with Randall, seeing how far he could go. First he opened the door and got the packages, per usual, then he tried looking out the window, then the front door, and eventually he stayed around during the night and watched TV. Randall felt safe doing this mainly because his exiling wasn't splashed all over the media like Cally's, and he only had to watch out for a few people; namely Fungus, Sully, Mike and Celia. Waternoose was probably rotting in jail by now, he figured. He would mostly come here when he couldn't sleep and wanted to remember the old life he had (the good parts). Sometimes he would just stare outside. Truth be told, he was even starting to miss the very people he loathed. Just plain homesick.

The aforementioned packages were, if they were what he hoped they were, right on time. Pushing the cart down the hallway, he went through 3 pairs of sliding doors, said hi to the people he passed, the usual company yadayada he'd known before. A few wanted to ask him about their own deliveries that hadn't come on time. Randall disliked the fact that a lot of them seemed to blame it on him when their stuff didn't arrive. Like it was his fault. He only distributed the items; he had no say in when they would come. You'd think they'd know better. He suspected most of them were Borns. Borns didn't know beans about the monster world, they only thought they did.

The Gateway had little security. You could get in simply by proving you were a monster, a test which Randall had no trouble passing. All one had to do was be scanned to find anything inhuman on your body and you passed. Costumes didn't set it off. There were no records of who went in and for how long, and no surveillance whatsoever.

Opening the door, he pushed the cart in. Two long boxes were leaned against a chair. Running over, he looked at the name on the labels.

MR. R. BOGGS

c/o DIEGO LAZZA

3456 Sputum Avenue

Monstropolis, MP

XXX YYY

Randall laughed at the name that was listed on the c/o. It was, as all of P.E. knew, somewhat of an anagram for GODZILLA. Sitting down in the chair, he grabbed a boxcutter from his belt and opened the first box.

After unwrapping the paper and string, Randall pulled out the pair of skis. They were pale green, and had 2 foot straps each instead of 1, which was the standard. It was so easy to get them. He only had to send in a picture of the bottom half of his body, which they analyzed and made custom-made skis for him.

The second package contained 2 poles, also with 2 handles each, also green. Randall felt the smoothness of them and marvelled over it. Cally had said she would teach him, but he at least wanted to know how to put them on. So he tried them out in the apartment. It was a funny feeling, almost like having 2 legs only. He practiced walking around with them on, moving both feet on one side at the same time, then the other two. He actually got pretty good at it and fancied he wouldn't half mind if he did have two legs. Although he wouldn't be as fast, it would at least be interesting.

There was one part on the signing up of the trip that he didn't understand. The form asked him that, "if you are an exile, please list all the people in Monstropolis you fear might recognize you." He had written Mike, Celia, Sully, Fungus, and, oh yes, Roz, which he had forgotten about afterwards, as is evidenced earlier. He even drew pictures of them from his best memory, thanks to art camp at the age of 10. Randall still didn't know why it mattered. Cally, of course, wrote "everybody". But she was signed up under a pseudonym, so she was safe.

A loud beeping sound emitted from his watch. He looked down. 6:11 am. Leaving the apartment, he turned off the lights and closed the door. The bus wouldn't wait forever. And it left in 49 minutes.