Chapter Four

Emma had been wandering around Storybrooke for an hour, and the rickety old playground at the edge of town, by the dock, seemed an appropriate place to rest. There was no one else there; everywhere else, there were townspeople. Lounging on benches, going on runs, walking their dogs. It didn't matter that it was October and not exactly warm outside. And everywhere Emma saw people, she was bombarded with questions. Where did you come from? How are you related to Mary Margaret? How long are you staying? What do you think of the town?

Here, she could breathe, she thought as she climbed up onto the top floor of the abandoned playground. Maybe that wasn't safe, but it couldn't be any less safe than her old school's playground; kids broke their arms practically every day falling off the faulty monkey bars.

She wished she had a phone to call her best-her only, really-friend on. But no foster parent had ever been willing to pay for a phone, and Emma had no way of earning money herself. So she never got to explain to Clara why she left, and why she wasn't back yet. Maybe she'd come to her house, only to have the Petersons inform her that Emma had run away, leaving her hurt that Emma never told her why.

Emma sighed. Mary Margaret had clearly been planning on spending time with David after breakfast, and Emma didn't want to intrude on their plans. So she'd told Mary Margaret she was going to go explore the town, and hoped she wouldn't think she was running off. But her bag was still at the apartment, and besides, she didn't want to leave.

"You're that new girl, aren't you?"

Emma, startled, glanced around her, but didn't see anyone.

"Relax," a boy's voice said, laughing a little. He emerged from under the playground. "It's just me."

"And who is me, exactly?" Emma asked.

"Me? I'm Will," he said. "And, to restate my previous question, aren't you the new girl?"

Emma nodded. "I'm Emma."

"Well, Emma, it's nice to meet you." The boy started running.

"Wait!" Emma called. "What's that?"

The boy stopped, swiveling back around. She could see him more clearly now; he was tall, even taller than her, which didn't usually happen. He was lanky, too, with shaggy dark hair and big brown eyes. He clutched a massive reddish-brown book in his hands, and she wanted to know what it was.

"This old thing?" He pointed to the book. "Oh, it's nothing."

"Then why did you hide it under an abandoned playground?"

"How did you-"

"Well, I'm guessing you didn't just come here with the book to read it under this thing," Emma said. "So why are you hiding it if it's not important?"

A small smile curled the boy's lips. "You've seen right through me, Emma."

Emma shrugged. "Just common sense."

"If you must know," the boy said, "It's a book of fairytales."

Emma raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you a little old for those?"

"What a sad, sad existence you must be living, thinking we're too old for fairytales," Will said. He'd begun walking a bit closer, and she didn't object.

"Why do you have a book of fairytales?" Emma tried. She couldn't explain exactly why, but this boy was frustrating her. Maybe because he couldn't seem to answer her directly.

"It's complicated," Will said, "And given your skeptical nature, I'm about one hundred percent sure you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Told me what?"

"A theory."

"A theory of?"

"A theory that everyone in this book-" he tapped the cover roughly, "-is a real, living person in this town."

Emma couldn't help it; she burst out laughing. "Okay, okay. I get it. You're trying to freak out the new girl. Well, it's not going to work. I've met much weirder people."

"I'm serious," Will said, looking a little hurt. "I knew you wouldn't believe me, and that's fine. But I'm right."

"Prove it," Emma challenged.

"Hey, you only just got here what, yesterday? You've got to get to know these people."

"I don't intend to," Emma said, though she wasn't sure if that was true or not.

"You're in the book too, you know," Will said.

Emma rolled her eyes. "Do not try to get me involved in this."

"Hey," Will said, "It's out of my hands now. You already are involved."

"Show me," Emma said.

Will came closer, right to the base of the playground. He held up the book to her, flipping through until he stopped at a seemingly random page.

"Okay," Emma said, wondering if she was missing something. "It's just a picture of Snow White and Prince Charming and some baby."

"The baby is you," Will said, and Emma didn't bother fighting the urge to roll her eyes. This was ridiculous. What was in the water in this town?

"Okay," Emma said, leaping down from the playground. "I have been sufficiently weirded out. I think you've achieved your goal."

"That wasn't my goal," Will said, to her back as she headed back to the path that would take her back into town. To Mary Margaret and David and Ruby and normal people. "My goal was to make you believe."

"Sure thing!" Emma called back. "Maybe we can get together once you've consulted that Archie guy."

"Oh, give it time!" Will said. "You'll come around."

Sure, Emma thought. I'm going to start associating myself with delusional psychopaths.

When she reached town again, she started heading to Mary Margaret's apartment building, but was stopped by someone familiar. That police officer from the previous night, Graham. Emma froze, panicked.

"Ah, Emma!" He said brightly. "Good morning."

"Morning," she said meekly.

"What were you doing out at the playground?" He asked curiously. "Thing's far from safe. Been falling apart for years."

"Just . . ." Emma searched her mind for something unsuspicious. She'd already made enough of a fool of herself in front of this guy, already lied to him enough. "Just needed some quiet, you know."

"Yes, Storybrooke is known as the loudest town on the eastern seaboard," he said, cracking a smile. Emma found herself smiling too, nervously.

"Enjoying your time with Mary Margaret?" He asked.

Emma nodded. "She's my favorite cousin."

"Really?" Graham raised an eyebrow. "You two don't look alike at all."

"Well, you know. Cousins usually don't," Emma tried, feeling her heart to pound. Graham couldn't know. No one knew except Mary Margaret, and she wouldn't tell a cop. She wouldn't.

"Interesting," Graham said, "That Mary Margaret never mentioned she had a cousin visiting before this morning. She's usually quite conversational with everyone in town."

"She might have forgotten," Emma said, trying to brush it off. "It's really no big deal. Nothing exciting."

"Huh. Orphans don't usually flee to our town. When they do, it can be quite exciting," Graham said, and Emma suddenly felt paralyzed with fear. How did he know?

"I . . ." she didn't know what to say.

"I've arranged for your former foster parents to pick you up," Graham said. "They'll be here tomorrow. I'm sorry, Emma, but it's not safe for you to be running around alone out here."

Emma nodded, swallowed hard. Of course he wouldn't understand; he would assume she was just a stupid teenager, not that she was running away to save herself.

"Does Mary Margaret know?" She asked quietly.

"No," Graham said. "I'll see you tomorrow, Emma. Best of luck to you."

Emma couldn't bring herself to say anything else as he walked away. She was confused, and angry, furious, and scared. And she resolved that there was only one thing she could do: she had to get out of there.