Chapter One
Emma couldn't see much due to the rain, but she could just barely make out a big green sign: Welcome to Storybrooke.
She snickered. What a stupid name for a town.
But it was a town, she reminded herself, with people, with shelter, and food, if she could find the money to pay for any of it. She was exhausted, though, and couldn't even see the beginnings of Storybrooke down the road, which meant it must be far. Too far for her to walk now.
She trudged off the side of the road and explored the edge of the forest, looking for anything remotely resembling a kind of shelter. All she needed was a place to sleep for a few hours, out of the downpour. She'd come so far, and it felt a little lazy to rest now, but if she continued on to the town she might pass out on the road. And that would be much worse than sleeping under a tree.
The only thing worse, Emma thought, would be getting caught. She'd come much too far to let that happen.
She finally found a massive oak tree whose giant branches shielded its roots mostly from the rain; a steady drizzle still poured down on her, but it was better than nothing. She wanted to extract her blanket from her backpack; it was freezing. But it was the only thing she'd kept her whole life, and she didn't want to ruin it. Not that she'd ever admitted this to any of her foster siblings, or planned to admit it to anyone in the future, but that blanket was the only thing she had left of her parents. She was going to hold onto it as long as possible.
She leaned back against the soggy tree, listening to thunder clap violently overhead. A strip of white lightning flashed in the distance. Maybe this wasn't the safest place to be, but it was certainly safer than the second foster home she'd been to.
She didn't know exactly what she hoped to find in Storybrooke; she'd always figured that if she walked long enough away from Boston, her old life, she could find a new one in a smaller town. That she could lie, say she was eighteen, get a job and buy an apartment. Get enough money to build something of a life for herself, and maybe eventually move back to Boston for college or a better job. Now, though, she had her doubts; what if no one in Storybrooke believed her? What if they turned her in? She didn't think she could handle that. Not after she'd fought so hard to break free from the foster system.
Just as she was dozing off, headlights startled her back awake. A car engine rumbled; she opened her eyes and saw a cop car stop just short of the Welcome to Storybrooke sign. Panic prickled all over her skin; Emma was terrified of cops. Cops could send her back.
A tall, lanky guy in a bomber jacket, not a police uniform, stepped out. Emma stood slowly, cautiously; it was still raining, but that wouldn't muffle the sound of her crunching along the forest floor completely. She was just beginning to think that she'd get away when the cop flicked on a huge flashlight. He swung it around back and forth, searching the forest for something. Emma didn't have time to wonder what it was before the light landed directly on her.
"Hey!" The cop called as she started running. "Hey, come back here! I won't hurt you! I'm just looking for my friend's dog!" He had an accent; maybe Australian? Emma wasn't sure, but she did know she had to get away.
"Who are you?" The cop began chasing her, running much faster than she could. Emma veered right, but a tree root above the already slippery ground caught her right foot by surprise. She tried to catch her balance and failed, starting to fall, but someone grabbed hold of her arm, saving her.
"You all right?" He asked her. "What are you doing out here?"
Running from the cops and my former foster mother.
"I . . . I'm lost," Emma lied. "I was out for a run earlier and . . . and I got lost."
He released her arm, and she stepped back, taking him in. There was no denying it: this guy was attractive. But he was older, probably in his mid-twenties, and besides, Emma knew she shouldn't be thinking like that right now.
He raised an eyebrow; clearly he was skeptical. "I'm Graham," he said. "I'm the town sheriff."
"Emma," she said.
"Why don't we get you back to town?" He said. "You can call your parents to come pick you up."
"No!" She said too quickly. "I . . . They won't. I'm staying with my cousin here."
"Oh?" Graham raised an eyebrow. "Who's that?"
Great.
"Uh, you know," Emma said, trying not to look panicked. "Dark hair, really nice, likes to wear sweaters."
"Mary Margaret?"
"Yes!" Emma hoped this Mary Margaret person wouldn't be contacted about this.
"Come on," he said, and started back for the road. "I'll take you into town."
Emma was grateful for the ride, honestly; maybe once she got to Storybrooke she could find some place to stay. An abandoned shed, maybe, like the one she'd stayed in the night she ran away.
Being in a cop car set her on edge; the last time she was in one, she was strapped into a carseat in the back. She was four, and she was supposed to be headed to her new parents' house. But the adoption fell through at the very last minute, and she'd never seen someone so disappointed as her foster parents upon her return home that day. It had crushed Emma her whole life, feeling like no one wanted her. It wasn't just that she felt that way either; no one did. But at least she was out of that house, she reminded herself. At least she was free.
"Where do you live, Emma?" Graham asked, after a moment of awkward silence. Even the radio was off; apparently there wasn't much crime in Storybrooke.
"Boston," she said, "but I'm staying with Mary Margaret for awhile."
"You going to school here?"
I hope not. "Yes."
"Mary Margaret's very nice," he said. "She's probably out looking for Pongo right now, too."
"Pongo?"
"Our friend Archie's dog. He's the town therapist."
"The dog?"
Graham chuckled. "Archie. Hopefully you won't be spending too much time with him."
Emma shuddered. She'd seen a therapist twice, when she was in a rich foster family who thought talking about her problems would make them disappear. She'd been diagnosed with abandonment issues and anxiety, things she didn't need a doctor to tell her.
They reached the town. It was nice and quaint, Emma thought, clutching her soaking wet backpack to her chest. She now understood why, however stupidly, it was named Storybrooke. It looked like something from an old fairytale, with the clock tower and little diner and colorful houses. The clock rang out suddenly, chiming loudly, and Graham's eyes widened; he nearly drove the car onto the sidewalk.
"What's wrong?" Emma asked.
"It's just . . ." He shook his head. "That clock hasn't moved since I've been here."
"Huh," Emma said. "Weird."
"Well, here you are," Graham said, pulling up to the curb in front of an old brick building. "Mary Margaret's place."
"Ah, yes," Emma said. "Looks familiar."
"See you around, Emma," Graham said as she climbed out of the car. She nodded and waved, he waved back, but even after she shut the door he lingered in his car. Was he waiting to make sure she made it in safely? No one had ever shown her that much concern, not even people she'd known for years.
She headed up to the building, hoisting her backpack onto her shoulders. The side door was open, and she stepped hesitantly inside. A blast of warmth hit her, and she was grateful; she rung out her hair and the hem of her old sweater. All she had to do was wait until this Graham guy drove off.
The door opened, surprising Emma, and in walked the woman she'd described: dark hair cropped short, light purple sweater under a heavy raincoat, bright smile. That could be, of course, because she was holding hands with a guy, who looked very much enamored with her.
"I'll see you tomorrow," the woman said, seemingly unaware of Emma's presence in the building's ugly florescent-lit lobby.
"7:15," the guy replied, bending down to kiss her again.
Ugh, Emma thought. She found PDA nauseating and unnecessary.
He mumbled something else, she laughed, and he finally left. The woman shut the door after him, turned around and gave a little yelp at the sight of Emma.
"Uh, hello!" She said. "I . . . wasn't expecting to see anyone here at this time of night!"
"I just needed a break from the rain," Emma said.
"You're out in this weather?" Mary Margaret raised an eyebrow. But rather than suspicious, she just looked concerned.
"I'm heading home," Emma said.
"I don't believe we've met before," Mary Margaret said, extending a hand. "I'm Mary Margaret."
"Emma," Emma said, shaking it briefly.
"Emma," the woman said, smiling. "I like that name."
"Anyways," Emma said, "I'd better get back home to, uh, my cousin."
"Who's your cousin?"
"I . . ." Emma was great at lying; it came naturally to her. But she couldn't imagine lying to someone as innocent as Mary Margaret. "I . . ."
"Do you have anywhere to stay?" Mary Margaret asked.
"No," Emma admitted. "I . . . I ran away. I was in a foster home, well, a lot of them actually, and I just couldn't take it anymore. I had to leave, even though I have no idea where I am . . . I'm sorry," she said, heading for the door. "I'll leave now."
"No!" Mary Margaret said immediately. "No, don't go! If you haven't got anywhere to stay, you're welcome to stay with me."
"That's too much to ask," Emma said.
"No," Mary Margaret argued. "It's no trouble. I live alone, and there's plenty of room in my apartment."
Emma hesitated.
"I should go," she said. She knew that. She didn't know if she could trust this woman; what if she turned her in? What if she kicked her out tomorrow? Emma didn't like relying on other people.
"I insist," said Mary Margaret, stepping in front of the door. "Please stay. I can't just let you out with no home."
"I've been living alone for a week," Emma said. "I can do it for awhile longer."
"You don't have to," Mary Margaret said. "At least come inside and get some dry clothes. You can tell me your story."
"I don't have a story," Emma said. "I just ran away."
"Well, it's the most interesting life story I've heard about in a long time," Mary Margaret smiled. "I'm curious."
Emma, again, hesitated. The thought of dry clothes and a warm apartment was like a dream, but again, she didn't know whether or not to trust this woman. On the other hand, it didn't seem as if Mary Margaret was going to quit anytime soon, so really, Emma's only option was to follow her upstairs.
"All right," Emma finally agreed, "But I can't stay for long."