'Songbird, Songbird, see him fly,

Drop the children from the sky,

When the young ones misbehave,

Escorts children to their grave

-The Children of Columbia

Infinite blue sky stretched away, dappled here and there with the unraveling wool of white clouds, through which the sun's light slanted, smearing them like watercolors across the sky. Walter Brown, Age 10, self-professed Traveler of the World, looked out, legs dangling over the endless drop. He idly drummed his fingers on the sidewalk to the lively polka piping out through the windows of the store. The smoldering butt of a Minor Victory cigarette lay nearby. Walt smoked them just like the other boys, but didn't much care for them.

'Hey, Dimwit! Get in here!'

Walter winced at the voice of his father, but was obliged to move all the same, and rose to his feet. Although he couldn't hear her, he knew that within the store his mother would be saying softly and almost to herself:

'Please don't call him that.'

She said it every time. She never said it loud enough that it might be taken for scolding, never that it might seem anything more than a murmur into thin air. His father could be a scary man, but only Walt and his mother ever saw that. To the customers he was the jovial, ideal family man. But as every child of Columbia feared the Songbird as much as they rejoiced in him, so Walter feared his father even as he loved him. With leaden feet the boy made his way back inside the store, as the polka tune cut out. His father had switched off the radio, and was staring at him. He was a tall man, with big strong arms, much unlike Walt's scrawny frame. He had a way of breathing through his dark mustache that always put the fear into Walt.

His mother was nowhere to be seen. She had a habit of excusing herself when Walt and his father were in the same room.

Walter's father held out a rag and cloth.

'The cabinets are dusty. Give them a wipe down. Make yourself useful.'

Walt took the items, and looked down at them.

'Yes sir,' he said.

'Don't mess up, Dimwit. I'm warning you. Now step to.'

Walter crossed the store, climbing a tiny, rickety footstool to reach the cabinet his father had pointed out. As Walter set to work, dusting around the glass beakers, the bell tinkled, and Mr. Harrow entered the store.

'Reg!' Walt's father cried, his remoteness suddenly replaced by an open and welcoming warmth. This was the side of his father that the people of Columbia knew. Most likely they would not have even believed it were they told the man did not live up to this reputation when it came to being a father. The two men set about doing business, and Walt returned to his chore. He was careful not to jostle any of the containers as he worked. He wouldn't mess up this time. He'd prove to his father that he wasn't a Dimw-

CRASH!

The two men turned to look at Walt, who could only stare dumbly down at the wreckage on the floor, the broken glass canister and its contents seeping into the floor. For a blind moment Walt stared at it, hoping that by his gaze alone he could reassemble the pieces and return them to the shelf. But what was done was done.

'I-I'm sorry,' Walt managed.

Reg gave a small sardonic smile, picked up his bag and headed out of the store, bidding goodbye. Walt's father wished the man a hearty farewell, but no sooner was he out the door than Walt's father rounded on him.

'Get. Down. Here.'

Walt tried to say 'yes, sir', but the sound which came out was something closer to a whimper, distorted by the trembling of his lips. Even as he told himself he would be strong, tears welled in his eyes. He descended the little ladder, and slowly crossed the floor toward his father. It wasn't fair. He hadn't tried to do it wrong, he had tried to be a good boy! Somehow it always went this way, like being a Dimwit was all he was meant to be.

His father didn't say anything. That was the worst part, as far as Walt was concerned. He simply glowered as the tears ran down Walt's face. It used to be that he'd shout, and stomp, but it was almost like he'd given up, that all the years of trying to scare Walt straight had bled him dry of harsh words. As Walt sobbed, his father turned on his heel and left the room, descending to the cellar. Alone in the store, Walt excused himself, and headed into the study, where his father would retreat to balance the books.

Walt sat down heavily, his tears having run their course, leaving only an empty feeling in his heart. As he wished himself far away, he heard a noise from beneath the floor. It was a clumsy noise, like someone doing a poor job of navigating a room. Walt frowned, and pressed his ear to the floor.

'Psst!' he said.

'Psst!' a voice from the floor said.

Walt leaped back, baffled. Quickly he set to work lifting the floorboard, and found he could just about squeeze himself in the crawlspace beneath. As he replaced the floorboards, he became immediately filled with a feeling of sanctuary, like nothing he had ever felt. He realized that he had found a place away from his father, his mother, and all the people of Columbia. This was a place they couldn't find, a place where he could be the Walt he wanted to be.

The dust tickled at his nose, but this seemed a minor nuisance compared with having to deal with his father. Walt heard the door open above, and the sound of footfalls on the floor; a loud, hollow noise, which shook more dust from the boards above Walt's head. And yet Walt felt untouchable, as if were in another world which his father knew nothing of. Walt found himself smiling. He couldn't remember the last time he had done that with his father in the room.

'Dimwit!' his father yelled, but Walt stayed silent, clapping a hand over his mouth and nose to silence his breathing as best he could.

'Walt! Walter, are you here?'

Finally satisfied that Walt was nowhere to be found, his father moved off, closing the door behind him.

'You'll do it again tomorrow,' said a sudden voice at Walt's ear, which made him jump out of his skin, his head slamming into the floorboard above. Walt's eyes bugged wide, fearful for a moment that his father would return at the noise. However, only the sound of silence remained.

'I'm sorry,' said the voice, which sounded like a young boy. 'I should have told you that was going to happen.'

'Who's there?' Walt hissed, conscious not to be overheard. He glanced around as his eyes grew slowly used to the dark, and saw something astonishing. Not a foot before his eyes, the air shimmered strangely. He had seen nothing of its like before, except perhaps for the Vigors at the fair. Yet was there a hand to use these powers? No. There was only the dark.

'It's me,' the voice said again. 'I mean, it's you. It's Walt.'

'What?' Walt said.

'No, no,' the voice replied. 'Walt.'

'I don't understand.'

'That's because I don't understand, either,' the voice replied, and Walt suddenly recognized it, though it sounded a little different outside of his own head. 'Don't worry, we'll figure it out!'

Voxophone: Walter Brown – The Tomorrow Boy

'Um. Hello. I think I'm using this properly? My name's Walt, I'm ten years old…

…Um, I found something in the floor. Like a hole, a kind of window into…

I don't really know. Tomorrow, I think?

There's this voice I hear whenever I go there. It sounds just like me. He says his name is Walt, too. I see him every day now, and he tells me what's about to happen tomorrow. He's never been wrong.

I don't really have friends. The other kids all call me Dimwit. Even father calls me Dimwit. I hate those stupid characters, I feel like they're making fun of me every time I see a poster or puppet show about them. But Other Walt likes me. He even helps me. Sometimes he tells me when things are going to go wrong tomorrow and I try to change it. Sometimes something else just goes wrong instead, though.

I'm worried. Does this mean I'm a bad boy? What if Other Walt is the False Shepherd? I don't want to get in trouble.

…I'm going to go now. I'll do some research and let you know.

'Hey, Walt?'

Other Walt's voice was there again, like it was every day now. They had spent many days in rapport, talking about little things, ideas for games, stuff they'd found, as well as bigger things, about what they wanted, their hopes and their fears. Other Walt was the best friend, the brother Walt had always wished for. Suddenly he didn't feel so alone.

The strange ripple in the air seemed almost to wobble in time to Other Walt's voice.

'Yeah? I'm here?' Walt said.

'SHH!'

Walt almost jumped at the sound, as Other Walt hushed him from beyond the veil.

'Just listen today,' Other Walt added. 'You just hafta listen!'

Walt did as he was told, falling silent. He could just about hear the breath of Other Walt still. He found himself thinking about what Other Walt looked like. What was he wearing in that day? What if he'd had a haircut? He made a mental note to ask later, to find out what would happen if he chose to wear something different tomorrow. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices, muffled by the floorboards. He knew them even so: his mother and his father. The voices came a little nearer, and suddenly he could hear what they were saying. His mother was speaking.

'-ryday it's something new. I just don't know what we're to do with him!'

'Do with him?' his father replied, voice rising with righteous dignity. 'I'll do what I've always done, and sooner or later, dimwit or not, he'll grow up to be a respected member of society and a boon to Columbia!'

'You don't believe that, though, surely you don't,' his mother returned. 'Ten years now and Walt disappoints us nearly every day. His schoolwork is horrid, he's clumsy, and you know he doesn't fit in with the other boys, he never has! Isn't there…?'

His mother's voice tailed off, as Walt lay there shaking, his mind humming like a static radio. His mother had always been the one to come to his defense. Not openly, but in her own way. Walt had always been convinced that she only stayed quiet because his father bullied her in the same way. Now, though…

'Isn't there what?' his father prompted. 'Speak your piece!'

His mother's reply came out in a rush of breath.

'Isn't there somewhere we can send him? Or something we can do with him?'

Walt felt a stillness fall over the room. It was the kind of stillness that would fall when he said something stupid, or mess something up. The stillness of his father selecting his next words…Walt's heart stopped.

'Walt is my son. Whatever else he may be, he's my responsibility. He'll go nowhere, for he's mine to repair.'

'They say,' his mother replied, with hope in her voice, 'That Songbird comes to take naughty children. Do you think it's-'

'Songbird nothing!' his father spat. 'A wives' tale, and even it weren't, Walter is my son! I won't see him taken from me, by man nor machine! What, you're crying now? Why for?'

Walt heard his mother's sobs and her footfalls on the wooden floor as she fled the room. His father was silent, but after a few minutes he heaved a sigh, and followed. Walt lay there alone with just his thoughts and the shimmering door to tomorrow.

He felt like someone had stopped his mind. He watched a pill bug shuffling through the dirt, going about its business, and wished that he could be a pill bug too, and forget the life he lived with his mother and father.

After a while Walt dared to speak out loud.

'Columbia,' he said, 'must be a real nice place for all the people who fit right in.'

But if Other Walt were still beyond the window, he said nothing.

Voxophone: Walter Brown – What To Do?

I don't really know what to do now. If you know that nobody wants you…but you can't do anything to fix yourself…then what do you do?

I don't know. I don't have any friends. Mother hates me even more than father does. All I have is Other Walt.

Is it true what they say about Songbird? Is it true he comes to take away the children who break the rules?

I wish I didn't have a window to tomorrow. I wish I had a window to the ground, so I could see if it's any better down there. Maybe Songbird can take me there and I can be happy? Maybe Other Walt can come too, and we'll find a better place down on the ground.

I don't know. What if it isn't better? What if it isn't better anywhere?

Walt slid through the gap in the floorboards again, dragging his voxophone behind him. He had decided to conceal it under the floor, so that his mother and father would never find it. It was best, he decided. The last thing he needed was them hearing his thoughts and holding that against him too.

'Hey!' Walt hissed through the shimmer. 'Are you there?'

A strange hiccoughing sound came through the window, like someone laughing quietly to themselves. Then Walt realized it probably wasn't laughing at all. He didn't know what to say.

'I-I spoke back to father today,' Other Walt eventually said, in a broken staccato. 'He was hopping mad. I've never seen him so angry, h-he shouted at me so bad, I thought he was going to hurt me!'

'Are you crying?' Walt asked.

'No,' Other Walt said, but Walter suspected he was lying.

'What did he say to you?'

'H-He called me names, he called m-me u-um….insolvent?'

'I don't know what that means.'

'Me neither.' Other Walt sniffed. 'Walt, I'm really scared.'

'It's okay,' Walter replied. 'It's all right. I'm here. There there.' He wasn't certain that it would indeed be okay, but his mother had said these things to him when he was young, when she could still blame his failures on his young age.

'Walt?' Other Walt seemed to have composed himself somewhat, and his voice had steadied. He sniffed though, and was in need of a handkerchief, Walt was sure.

'Yes?' Walt replied.

'Do you ever speak to the boy from yesterday? Down here, I mean?'

'No. Never,' Walt replied, and only now thought it strange. If the tomorrow boy spoke to him from a day hence, then should he not be speaking to the Walt from a day previous?

'Oh. It's just that you're not the only Walt I speak to. There's the tomorrow boy as well.'

'Oh. And?'

'And nothing. Today he wasn't there. He's never not been there without telling me first. What if something happened? What if father…'

Other Walt's trailed away, and Walt filled in the silence with images of his own, of his father's terrible wrath.

'If father what?' Walt dared to whisper.

'I don't know. I'm scared Walt. I-I don't know what's going to happen, but-NO!'

There came a sudden sound from the other side of the window, a splintering, wrenching sound. The last thing Walter heard through the window was Other Walter cry out his name, and then everything fell silent, leaving only the veil shimmering, quiescent now and somehow, Walt knew, forever after.

Voxophone: Walter Brown – Other Walt

I don't think Other Walt is coming back. I keep checking, but there's nothing to hear. The sounds on the other side are louder, though, like they left the floor open. Which means Other Walt isn't coming back.

I wish he was there now. I wish he could tell me it will be better tomorrow. It must get better, it must! They show us so many pictures and statues and kinetoscopes of how wonderful life in Columbia is, and maybe it's just because I'm not old enough but it seems like a different place. So it must get better…

Maybe that's tomorrow. Maybe Other Walt went to someplace better, so maybe tomorrow is better.

It has to be.

As the sky shaded to red and the sun began to dip low, Walt took his usual place at the edge of the pier, his feet dangling over the side. Sooner or later his father would call him inside, he knew. Sooner or later it would become tomorrow. That was how it worked, after all. His mother would sometimes say to him that tomorrow never comes, and he himself had once thought of tomorrow as something vague, something as shapeless and shifting as the clouds in which Columbia made her nest.

Now he feared tomorrow would finally come. Not a shapeless thing, but a solid thing. Just as surely as it would be a Tuesday. A fact. A constant.

Perhaps. Some part of him still dared to hope, to think that tomorrow could be shaped, that the boy from beyond was not truly himself, but some version of himself like that of a dream. He knew that in his own world, yesterday's boy still had reason to hope, to look for a world beyond Columbia.

The thought was some comfort. Walt's eye caught the shape of Songbird's home in the distance, and he began to sing softly to himself an old schoolyard song.

'Now I lay me down to sleep…

Pray that Songbird's counting sheep…

If I die before I wake…

Know it's Songbird come to take.'

And perched on the edge of forever, Walt dared to dream that tomorrow was infinite.