Storybrooke

October 2011

Sitting alone at one of the outside lunch tables, Henry popped open his Toy Story lunchbox and pulled out his pristinely wrapped ham and cheese sandwich with absolutely no mayonnaise. He made a face at all the leafy green stuff his mom stuffed between the slices of bread and pondered the idea of eating the two sizeable portions of homemade, spiced apple crisp first but decided to save the best for last and unwrapped his main course from its wax paper.

His mom wouldn't have usually doubled on the dessert, but she told him he was adopted that morning. Deep down, Henry had wondered. He didn't really look like his mom, and most of the other kids in his class looked like their parents. At first, he thought that maybe he resembled his absent father and badgered his mom with questions about him. This morning at breakfast while they ate oatmeal, she snapped at his persistent pestering and told him the truth. She wasn't his biological mother.

Henry bit into his sandwich and wished he'd taken up his mom's offer of not going to school that day. He'd been very upset earlier, to the point that he cried so much, he puked. It had been awful finding out his mom hadn't actually given birth to him, but what upset him the most was that his birth mother hadn't wanted him.

Why did she give him away? Did she not love him? Why hadn't he been enough?

His mom had sharply instructed him to not think about his birth mother and that she didn't matter. It was her loss and her mistake. His mom added that he was her son and hers alone, and she was not going to compete with a woman who wasn't even present.

"Have a good cry about it, Henry, and then go wash your face and never think about her again. I'm going to make your lunch and take you to school when you're ready. I won't make you ride the bus this morning."

Once his sandwich was reduced to crumbs, he started in on his Fruitable juice box and carrot sticks and paused mid-slurp when Miss Blanchard, the fourth grade teacher of Storybrooke Elementary, sat down and joined him at the table.

"Hi, Henry," she said and placed her satchel on the table before pulling out her own lunch pail. Hers had an ample, yellow-breasted blue jay on the lid. "I hope you don't mind if I join you."

Henry shrugged his small shoulders. "Okay."

"How are you liking Mrs. Shoemaker? She's very nice, isn't she?"

"Yeah, I guess," he mumbled and opened the Tupperware containing the large pile of spiced apple crisp.

"Mmm. That smells good. You know, I make a mean pear crisp?" Miss Blanchard commented and then sighed. "Henry, I heard you had a rough morning. I probably shouldn't have, but I eavesdropped on a conversation this morning between Mrs. Shoemaker and your mother. It isn't my business and you're not my student, but if you need anyone to talk to, I'm here."

Henry poked at his perfectly cooked apples with a spork and huffed. "It's just…why didn't she want me? My birth mom."

"Oh, Henry," Miss Blanchard said and patted his shoulder. "She was probably in a position where she couldn't keep you. She probably wanted you to have your best chance." A funny look flittered across her pretty features, and she shook her head as if to snap out of a daze. "And, well, you have a good home here. You have a mom who loves you, a nice home, and I suspect a lot of toys."

"Yeah," he said in disinterest. "But I just don't know."

Miss Blanchard nodded gently and pensively and then opened her satchel again, pulling out a large, thick book. On the cover in prominent letters, it read Once Upon a Time. "Do you like fairytales?"

"They're kind of for girls, aren't they?"

"Not all of them." She laughed and opened the book. "This morning, I was cleaning out my bedroom closet. Like I've done every week, thousands of times, and I found this book. It was there. Like Magic."

"I don't think magic is real, Miss Blanchard. I mean…I heard my mom last Christmas put the presents underneath the tree when she thought I was sleeping, and I pretend to be asleep when she puts money underneath my pillow."

"Of course magic isn't real, Henry. I'm only saying it was strange how I never noticed this book before."

"It probably goes to the school library."

"Maybe," she said. "But as I was flipping through it, I realized something. Many of these characters don't have perfect homes or families or backgrounds. Some of them lost a mom or a dad or both, yet they still can find hope and happiness. Sometimes, it even finds them. Here." Miss Blanchard scooted the book towards him. "Why don't you hold onto it for a while? Maybe some hope will find you?"

"I've never read a book this big on my own."

"You'll do fine, Henry. There aren't too many big words."

Henry shot her a dubious expression and flipped the page, landing on an illustrated picture of Snow White and Prince Charming at their wedding. Henry eyes bulged and looked up at Miss Blanchard and gasped. In a satiny and feathery wedding dress, ebony hair done up in curls and secured with a tiara, the fourth grade teacher bit into her peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich.

"Did I get pink goo on my face?" she asked, mouth stuffed.

Henry smiled, something cool and exciting bubbling up inside him.


Misthaven

Hook's eyes fluttered open and he caressed the remnants of the dream of a young lady he hadn't thought of in a while. A couple of years had come and gone since he consciously thought of Emma Swan. Alas, she had crept into his slumbering mind and rattled around, causing havoc like she had done some eleven years ago. In his dream, she was a bit aged from how he remembered her. She had been lying next to him on her side in the lumpy, straw-padded bed in his shack. Her head had been propped up by the support of her arm, and when he had reached out to stroke her cheek, she allowed him and then called him by his christened name.

"Emma," he said in return.

"Killian," she repeated and grabbed his hand from her face and lowered it beneath the covers to her unclothed breast. She nibbled at her bottom lip and then said, "Take me."

Before he could even assure himself of what that entailed exactly because she couldn't possibly mean that, Emma had coerced him onto his back and encased him inside her awaiting depths. He groaned in surprise and pleasure, and her hands moved up his torso, resting on his chest as she lifted and lowered herself, using her knees as leverage. His hand and wrapped stump massaged her thighs, and he began to lift his own hips each time she sank down, eliciting a pleasured and breathy gasp from her lips.

"Yes. Say my name," he had encouraged, his fingers moving to where they were joined, circling and rubbing with the intention of making her see stars.

She keened and the rhythm of her hips stuttered. "Did you want this? Back then?"

"You were a wee one, darling. I couldn't bring myself to that point. But yes."

"You can have me now. Take me." Her head had dropped back, and the ends of her long hair tickled his upper thighs. The sensation nearly undid him, and he flipped her over onto her back and drove into her. Between her moans and gasps of ecstasy and feeling of being inside her, he was damned near blinded by need.

When they had both reached their peaks, he kissed her, devouring her mouth entirely and leaving no part untasted. They had separated when coming down from their high, and he had said, "I believe I still miss you, Swan."

She reached up and delicately combed her fingertips through hair, her green eyes indecisive. "You know I don't love you anymore. So much time has gone by, and I never waited."

"But you've missed me, too?"

Emma sat up and gave him a bitter half-smile. "It's funny."

"What is?"

"That you're dreaming of me tonight of all nights."

The dream ended there, and Hook had woken up. It had been such a strange, arousing yet nonsensical dream. He brushed it away, rolling onto his side to press open mouth kisses to his bed mate's bare back. Since his stealthy migration to the small community, he was never without companionship for the night. Gods, he had forgotten what it had been like to bed a different woman nightly. Again, the community was small and the selection of attractive women sparse. He'd probably cycle through in a fortnight.

He'd come to the small section of land to avoid the ogres roaming the lands and at Cora's request. She claimed to be along in due time and told him to feel free in making himself comfortable and attaining the trust of the community's leader Lancelot who was a skilled warrior but also a traitor to the great Arthur Pendragon and the Knights of the Round Table.

Hook toyed with his companion's long, blonde tresses. They were a few shades darker than Emma's, but they were mighty lovely nonetheless as was the woman they were attached to. He wrapped the locks around all five of his fingers and yanked gently to stir her from her sleep. She awoke with an alarmed gasp and moaned, pleading for him to pull harder. Hours before, she had begged with the same earnest for him to straddle her torso, wrap a rough, frayed roped around her neck, and spill his seed on her bosom.

Hook may be a pirate, but he never took pleasure in binding a woman, even if she desired it. Naturally, his lovemaking could be both gentle and rough, depending on the circumstances and lady he was entertaining, but there were lines he didn't fancy crossing, and he had told Miss Lana that neither of them needed such brutality to achieve a satisfying night.

Apparently, he'd been naïve in his words, for the lass currently wanted him to rip out her hair. She stooped to using every trick in the book to get him do as she pled, but his desire for her weakened by the second. The next thing he knew, she was vacating his bed in a snit, angrily putting on her clothes and stomping out of his shack.

Now alone, Hook's musings were drawn back to Emma and sincerely hoped she hadn't acquired a taste similar to Lana's. Of course, he wasn't about to morosely muse about how an older Emma deserved only gentle coitus accompanied with scented candles, poetry, and rose petals on the sheets. Even at her chaste state of sixteen, she hadn't radiated that kind of temperament. Girls like her. Women like her, they needn't such frivolity. Romance and seduction bounced off females akin to Emma like a magical force field. There was no faffing about with pretty words of love and heart-felt oaths of fidelity.

On the other hand, Emma had valued kindness which was why she took such a shine to Baelfire.

Bloody hell, Bae. Truthfully, Hook had thought more about the lad than Emma in the past eleven years. Nonetheless, it had been a while. Bae was what? Twenty-five, perhaps. Not terribly far from twenty-six. Emma would be...twenty-eight? He didn't know the exact date of her birth, actually. All he knew was that when he met her, she'd been two days away from seventeen. Bloody hell, like that had even mattered in Neverland. Age and time were tricky things to keep track of while there.

Something tickled Hook's memory, and he remembered something Emma had said in his dream.

"It's funny…you're dreaming of me tonight of all nights. After so long."

How odd.

He rolled over onto his back and closed his eyes, reckoning he should catch some sleep. There was still plenty of moonlight left for the night, having retired to his humble abode with Miss Lana fairly early. Hook was nearly asleep when the shack's door opened, and Cora shuffled in like she owned the bloody place. He didn't even own the place but earned his keep as the community's blacksmith.

"Twenty-eight years have come and gone. Soon, the curse will be broken. It's time we start the second part of our plan."


Boston 2011

With the small, white box in hand, Emma entered her apartment and kicked off her heels, her feet aching from the change in pressure.

Bad idea. Complete shit idea. Should've worn flats.

She padded into her sparsely decorated kitchen and set the box on the counter, opening it and shoving a star-tipped candled into the white frosted cupcake. Lighting a match, she lit the candle and rested her chin on crossed arms, staring wistfully into the flame.

"Another banner year," she whispered and squeezed her eyes shut for a few moments before blowing out the candle, flinching when hearing the doorbell ring. Frowning, she went to the door and opened it, arching a brow when seeing her neighbor who lived two floors above her.

"What?" she said, taking note of the brown paper bag tucked underneath August's arm.

He opened the bag and pulled out a large bottle of tequila. "My girlfriend dumped me. Care to join me in drowning my sorrows?"

"Uh…" She wrinkled her brow and her knee-jerk reaction was to say no. August had moved into the complex four days after she did a month ago. They had officially met on the elevator, and he accidently dropped his type-writing case on her foot. He had been embarrassed and scrambled to collect it and then started talking.

A lot.

From that point, he took the liberty to try and insert himself into her life with his smooth words and mixed signals. Since he said his girlfriend dumped him, Emma now realized he was looking for a friend and not a companion, but it had been impossible for her to tell. One moment, he'd playfully flirt and then next he'd happen to show up at a bar where she was looking for someone to take the edge off after a rough bounty. August would totally cock-block her, warding away any guy wanting to buy her a drink, at the same time hinting she shouldn't wear such revealing attire. Men might get the wrong impression.

"Come on. I got a good brand, and you definitely look like you need a shot or seven."

Emma looked from his scruffy face to the bottle and back. He carried a slightly creepy vibe to him, there was no denying that. Regardless, he wasn't the fugliest thing she'd allowed into her bed, not that it would even go that far. She'd have to consume the entire bottle of tequila, and he'd have to promise to never speak to her again afterwards for her to consider sleeping with him.

One night stands only with not so perfect strangers but with men who weren't afraid to give it to her good and not ask her out for breakfast the following morning.

One would think those type of guys wouldn't be hard to find, but it seemed when they got a good look at her the 'morning after', they were spouting Byron and limericks and sonnets, the weirdoes.

August seemed the type to prepare her breakfast. Not a full out breakfast with scrambled eggs, bacon, and waffles. He'd probably serve her up some Oreo Pop Tarts with some hair of the dog because in the last few weeks she had become associated with him, he seemed to know her pretty damned well.

Like how in the hell did he happen to buy Patron, her favorite?

Again, creep-vibe ringing loud and clear.

But it was her birthday, and there was a wine stain on her dress, and she was alone. Hadn't she wished to not be on this one day? Any other day, fine, but not today.

"All right," Emma said, unsure, and widened the gap of her door to let him pass. She led him to her kitchen and gestured to the stools at the counter and retrieved some glasses from the cupboard.

He stripped off his leather jacket and draped it over the stool and sat down, pointing to the bakery box. "What's the cupcake for?"

"It's nothing. Just a treat for myself for the evening."

August plucked the candle out of the cupcake and gave her a half smile. She grabbed the tequila and unscrewed the lid, pouring a small (but not too small) amount into each.

"Is it your birthday?" He popped the end of the candle into his mouth, sucking off the whipped frosting but appeared as if he were smoking a strange and comical cigarette.

She shrugged. "Help yourself," she said and brought the glass to her lips and downed her drink in two gulps.

August saluted her with his glass. "Happy birthday, Emma."

While pouring her second round, she asked, "So you seem like a somewhat decent person. Why'd your girlfriend dump you? Did she find out you seemed to have it out for your neighbor's sex life?"

He sputtered into his glass and pounded on his chest. "Just looking out for you."

A small flare of irritation sparked inside Emma, and she asked, "Who asked you?"

"You seem like a great girl, is all. You deserve better than dicks."

"It's not up to you when it comes to who and what I deserve, and you still haven't answered my question. Why'd your girlfriend dump you?"

It was August's turn to shrug. "She had her reasons, but…" he pointed his finger, "It made me realize something."

"I'm not going to guess."

"I didn't want to take her on vacation with me anyway. I had this trip all planned out. We were going to this quaint, little town up in Maine. Storybrooke. Ever heard of it?"

"No."

"I hear it's like a fairytale. You like fairytales?"

Emma frowned, her lips hovering on the rim of her glass for a few moments before replying, "No."

"My favorite was always Snow White. Next to Pinocchio of course. What's your favorite?"

"I don't have one. I don't like them."

August looked like he had something quick and witty on the tip of his tongue, but he bit his lip and took a drink before saying, "You should come with me."

Emma snorted. "Yeah. Okay."

"I'm serious. It's a pretty place. It's in Maine, so a lot of trees."

"I don't like Maine," she said. "I don't even know you, and you're asking me to go on a trip with you that was planned for your ex-girlfriend."

"It would be platonic. Two friends enjoying each other's company."

"Friends? When did that happen? All I did was allow you to drink in my kitchen and make moves on my cupcake and…shut up! That is not what I meant, you pervert!"

August burst out laughing, and Emma tried to hold off her own giggles, but four glasses of tequila was making that feat practically impossible. She restored to an embarrassed chuckle and cupped her forehead.

"You look like you need to get away for a while, Emma."

She shook her head. "Not to Maine and not with you."

August stared at her for a long time and sighed. "Why don't you like fairytales?"

"It's not uncommon. I just don't."

Her mind was starting to fuzz, and a halo was beginning to form round August. She contemplated the freshly filled glass in front of her. She should probably stop. Maybe even brew a pot of coffee and dig for some Ritz crackers in her pantry to take the edge of the inevitable.

Emma knocked back the drink. The guy was talking about Maine and fairy tales, and she couldn't handle both. Maybe one or the other but not both.

"You must have a reason."

"They're not real." Emma massaged her forehead. "I don't like them because filling people's heads with that nonsense is leading them up to disappointment and failure. There. That's why I don't like them. Happy?"

"That's not why you don't like them," August said and yanked Emma's glass from her before she could do away with it like the others, ignoring her protesting glower. "You don't like them because you're afraid they might be real."

Emma froze, her heart dropping into her stomach. She gasped softly and regarded him, sober and painfully clear-headed. "Who are you?"

"Just call me August. For now," he said. "And Emma? I know about Neverland."

"What? I-I…" She shook her head and pressed her back against the cupboards behind her, putting distance between them. "I don't know what you're talking about, but I think you should leave."

August's expression turned somber, and he said, "I can't imagine what you went through when you were there, and all I can say is that I'm sorry. It was my fault."

"You are a crazy person! Get out of my apartment!"

He fished something out the pocket of his leather jacket, and it looked like an old newspaper clipping. He unfolded and flattened it on the counter and pointed. Emma apprehensively leaned closer to read the faded article and then brought the piece of paper closer to make sure she read the heading right.

"You've been stalking me!"

"I was the boy, Emma. The seven year old boy who found you."

Frustrated, she began to pace, never taking her glaring eyes off August. "You're lying."

"You know I'm not."

"God! I can't believe…" She stopped and scoffed. "I'm calling the police. You're obviously some lunatic-"

"Your parents are in Storybrooke. They're in Maine waiting for you to find them."

Emma located her phone and in her small sitting room on the coffee table. "I don't have parents, and I'm pretty sure Storybrooke doesn't exist, and fairytales are not real!"

"Neverland was…is. Second star to the right and-"

"Shut up!" Emma threw her phone and fell to her knees, hugging herself and tried not to rock like an unstable person having an overwhelming flashback of a traumatic event.

Her feet still ached from those heels, but what if it wasn't from the shoes? What if it was from the uneven, earthy grounds of Neverland? What if she was still running? What if she was dreaming and none of this was happening?

"It was real, Emma," August said and she snapped back to the present.

"I know!" she yelled. "I know, but how do you?"

Instead of encouraging her to her feet, August joined her on the floor and handed her the glass he deprived from her. She drank it and wiped her lips with the back of her hand, staring at a spot on the rug.

"It's…well, let me just say that I'm from a place like Neverland. A place called Misthaven."

"Misthaven," Emma whispered, remembering the place that was also called the Enchanted Forest. Neal, Hook, and a handful of other Lost Boys had been from there.

"It's where you were born," August added, "and you were brought here to this realm."

"Realm," she repeated, testing the word she hadn't used in eleven years. It felt foreign and bitter on her tongue, so she shook her head. "No."

"Emma."

"No." She climbed to her feet and stumbled back to the counter, leaning on it for support. "Whoever you are, I put Neverland behind me a long time ago. And Misthaven? I'm not from there."

August looked like he wanted to argue, and she saw the protest die on his lips. Eventually, he said, "I get it's hard to believe, and I can't make you. Come with me to Storybrooke, and I'll show you. I'll show you it's all real, not just Peter Pan but others."

"Others," Emma said, swallowing. "Even if what you saying's true, Neverland was a nightmare. Every day for four months, I thought I was going to die. Terrible, awful things happened to me there because of Peter Pan, because of Captain Hook. I don't want to go anywhere near others."

"I am one of those others, Emma, and I need your help. I'm going to show you something." August sat down on her sofa chair and rolled up the left cuff of his jeans. "Do you see it?"

Emma stared at the smooth, wooden appendage peeking out from his pant leg. "I see your prosthetic. I had no idea, August, but-"

"No," he growled and started unbuckling his belt.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! What are you doing?!"

August dropped his pants, and Emma's eyes fell to his plain black cotton boxers and then to his lower thigh.

"What in the hell?" she muttered. From August's knee down, the leg was completely wood. The appendage seemed to be attached directly to his left quadriceps. No surgical evidence of screws or surgical scars keeping the prosthetic in place. When her eyes focused even more, it was like she was witnessing a slow, progressing spread of polished granules creep up his thigh.

"In Misthaven, I was called Pinocchio."

Emma wished she had never made that wish over her cupcake. God, she wished she would've forgone the cupcake entirely and just purchased a bottle of wine and some chocolate Twinkies and rubbed one off for the night before passing out half-buzzed.

"I'm turning back into wood. I probably deserve it, but I don't want that to happen because this is going to kill me. I need you, to come with me to Storybrooke. I don't want to die, and I made a promise twenty-eight years ago that I would bring you to your parents. They are there and are waiting for you to find them. Pack a suitcase or nothing at all, just come with me. If not for that, then for me. This one favor, and I'll be out of your life forever. I promise."


Maine

Two Hours Later...

"Stop the car," Emma said once Augusta was ten minutes behind them. "Pull over."

"We're almost there, Emma."

She pressed her forehead to the cool glass of the passenger side window of her car. August only had a motorcycle, and he saw it prudent they travel together. She had sluggishly and drunkenly offered up her keys to him back in Boston in hopes that she wouldn't regret it. She didn't trust this guy, but she wasn't about to drive drunk.

"Please," she lamented, the three cups of coffee sloshing unhappily around her in her gut. She didn't have to pee just yet, but she felt sick. "I'm going to wretch."

August pulled a small, rectangular box out of his the inner lining of his leather jacket and handed it to her. "Take a couple of these. They'll help."

"You just happen to have Ru 21 on your person?" Emma popped the cap and shook two tablets into her palm.

"Always."

Chucking mirthlessly, she knocked back the pills and with her bottle of water, the liquid doing nothing to settle her stomach. If anything, her stomach retaliated even more and she doubled over, sticking her head between her knees. "Was the tequila necessary?"

"I didn't know you were going to drink so much. The goal was to only soften you to the idea of coming up here with me."

She sighed and slowly straightened. "Because you're Pinocchio, and you are turning back into wood. Somehow me being in this nonexistent place called Storybrook is supposed to stop that. And…my parents are there waiting for me."

"It's not that crazy, Emma," he told her, and there was a near smile in his tone.

"Oh, it is. I'm still not sure…" She flicked her wrist at him and then rolled down the window to let the cold air smart her face. She breathed in the crisp, fresh air. It smelt like a clean autumn night, a bit damp from the storm they missed earlier in the evening.

August. Pinocchio. Whoever the hell this guy was. The wood replacing his body mass must've addled his brain. Her parents were waiting for her in Maine? Seriously? Emma had come to terms with the fact that her parents, or at least her birth mother, had once been in Maine. She specialized in finding people, and she had tried Maine. God, had she ever. Not physically of course. That was what the internet was for, but the Pine Tree State was well and truly lice-combed.

"Pan is hardly the only thing out there," August said again.

"That doesn't make me feel better. He was a monster." Is. God, he was probably still alive. Snatching children from their bedrooms. She and Neal hadn't been able to keep ahold of Shadow when they crash landed into the frigid and questionable waters of the Charles River Basin . It darted off towards the starry sky, undoubtedly flying back to Neverland and its lord.

"In a half hour, we'll be to Storybrooke. We'll find an inn and you can sleep off that tequila. I have a feeling you aren't going to be any use until you're sober."

Emma snorted. "You know I looked this place up on my phone. Google didn't recognize it."

August smiled. "What does Google say about Neverland?"

"Yeah, but it's a known, fictitious place. Storybrooke, Maine doesn't even pop up. If it is real, how did you find out about it?"

August glanced at her. "Because I went looking for it a week ago, and I found it. It's visible to me because I'm from the Enchanted Forest. It will be the same for you."

"Right." Emma nodded, and smacked her lips in annoyance. He hadn't actually told her how she supposedly ended up in Maine, but she hadn't asked. It would make him think she was interested in him spouting off a string of lies. If he was Pinocchio, shouldn't his nose be poking her windshield at this point. "Because I was born there, too, but really? I wasn't. I was born here. Probably in this state."

"You had a white knitted blanket wrapped around you," he said. "Your name was weaved in with purple ribbon. Emma, I wasn't lying to you when I said I was the seven year old boy who found you. But I didn't just find you. I was waiting for you to come through, and you did. We were sent to the same orphanage, and I…well, you've heard my story."

"I don't know anything about you, August, except that you think you're a Disney character," Emma said. "And you happen to have a wooden leg. A weird wooden leg."

"I'm talking about Pinocchio's story. I never could make the right choices. Temptation always got the better of me. I always cave."

"Sounds like someone I knew," she said, thinking of Neal for two seconds before finding another subject to distract her and lamely commented, "There's a lot of trees."

"I want you tell me about Neverland."

Emma jerked in her seat, pinning August with a shocked expression. "No."

"Was there magic?"

"I'm not answering that."

"Pixies?"

"No." She hit her fist on the arm rest and shook her head. There had only been one. "That's all I'm going to say."

"You've been shown the impossible, and you still refuse to believe."

"There's a difference between knowing and believing, August. I know Neverland exists, but I don't believe in...anything."

August's mood turned somber. "Not just for my sake, but for yours, I hope that changes."

He then tapped the brakes and merged onto the exit lane, and Emma sank into her seat as they got off I-95. "This isn't Storybrooke."

"It's just a little, roadside service town. Storybrooke isn't far from here, but we have a stop to make first."

Emma's fears were confirmed when he pulled up to a diner and killed the engine. "I'm not getting out of the car."

August pointed to the trees behind the establishment. "You came through there. I can show you the tree if you'd like."

"The tree. Is that some sort of euphemism or are you actually talking about a tree?"

Unbuckling his seatbelt, he opened the car door. "Let's go see it."

She didn't budge from her seat.

The man exhaled and hung his head for a second and then said, "How about some cheese fries first then? Or maybe some pie and coffee? I'm sure they have cherry."

Emma stared at him, mouth agape and then finally said, "Look, I don't know how you know so much about me, but it's not helping your case."

August looked up at the sky as if seeking out an answer to a question. "I'm just trying to get you to believe in what I've said. I know it's strange that I know so much about you, but I am far past being concerned about how creepy I'm coming off. I am the boy in the newspaper article, and I am Pinocchio. You know I'm not lying, and a part of you does believe. If you didn't, you would've saw a normal leg and not wood." He got out of the car and limped to the other side, opening Emma's door for her and offering his hand. "So come with me, and we'll both revisit long, near forgotten memories, and I'll explain about how you got here from the Enchanted Forest."