Finally, Amy was alone. The other children had gone home, lured away from the playground by their parents or dinner, the snap! buzz! of the streetlights coming on. In groups, in pairs, clumped together like homing pigeons, they petered out until it was just Amy and the swing set, the steep metal slide.

Now, Amy could unwind herself. For hours, she’d been playing at her own private game of make believe—pretending to be like the others. It was hard work, and took more imagination than any outer space or royal fantasy. To make it believable, to make it real, she had to adjust her spine, change the set of her eyes, and hold her mouth very carefully. She drew her arms away from her side, tried to mirror the posture of the other—human—girls. Amy tempered her laughter, taught herself how to smile and tease, how to discern mockery from playful banter. By the end of a school day, she was scooped hollow.

The playground after curfew was a great place to replenish herself. There was no one to bother her, no one to perform for. Amy set her mask aside, and strode over to the swings. She’d been eyeing them for a while, but apparently, it was no longer “cool” to be seen actually playing on any of the equipment. Her peers, the little sect of girls she wished to ingratiate herself with, preferred to sit at the benches and show off their flip phones. Amy, phoneless, more interested in the company than the possessions, kept letting her gaze drift to the swings.

Now that she was alone, she got on a swing, kicked off her tennis shoes, and kicked off into the sky. What a rush! Every sensation was like bliss—the woodchips crunching against her school socks, the night air whipping up her quills, the feel of the wind against her fur. She took the swing higher, higher, and tilted back her head. Delicious vertigo, the excitement of being up so high and the fear mingled… Amy made no noise, no whoop of joy or laughter. She took in deep breaths, felt every nerve in her body alight.

Suddenly, a sound. Amy dragged her feet hard against the woodchips to bring herself to a stop. It sounded like laughter, bright and high, but not so joyful. It was almost malicious, teasing. Amy listened to it, but did not move, fear keeping her rooted to the seat of the swing. What if she wasn’t alone? What if some of the kids stayed back to see what she was doing out there? And, thought a sickened Amy, what if they were all gathered in some shady spot, laughing at her?

Her stomach was oily, roiling. Every time she thought to get up and start home, there came another peal of laughter, higher and meaner than before. Tears stung at her eyes. A lump the size of a peach stone lodged itself in her throat. Amy held fast to the swing’s chains to give her hands something to do, lest she start scratching herself.

After maybe ten minutes of sitting there petrified, still as a rabbit in headlights, Amy forced herself up on wobbly, ringing legs. They (if it was a group of kids, as she thought) could laugh all they like, but it was getting cold and she needed to be home before her dad was. She didn’t like the idea of him worrying about her, and there would be no explaining that she was held up at the playground by far-off cackling.

Still, Amy didn’t want to walk the main street. She could just imagine it, her walking alone and then those kids coming out of the shadows, taunting her, jostling her. Poor Amy with her mask off, poor Amy at the swings at night. With enough time and twisting, the story would turn into something ugly. Amy, you know, that weird hedgehog girl? The slow one? Well, I saw her at the playground doing some weird ritual on the swings. She looked crazy, a real—

She slipped her shoes back on, and started towards the woods. There was a path through the trees that lead right up to Amy’s backyard. She knew it well enough by day; she couldn’t imagine night changing it all that much.

Slowly, the way lighted by the dim glow of the moon, Amy cut through the woods. It was strange in the dark, the trees and bushes and metal fences that separated nature from the houses only black silhouettes. She inched herself along, stopping every now and then to admire the look of moonlight on a leaf, revel in the feeling of tingling moths against her forearms. She was usually averse to weird touches, but there was something appealing about the quiet of the woods, how branches and leaves reached out to her. To hell with castles! If Amy were the sort to indulge in princess games, she’d want her domain to be of green and dark, cool night air and the evening opera of crickets.

Halfway home, Amy came across a pool of water. It was black and motionless, and when Amy put her hand to it, it was strangely warm. Aware of the time but curious, Amy found a stick and squatted by the water. She threw in leaves, twigs, some small hard things that might’ve been berries or seeds. She imagined she was a little witch brewing up potions, an alchemist making bizarre compounds. Her mind filled, swelled. For a while, there was nothing but the black water, her hand stirring.

So enraptured in her pretend was she that Amy hardly noticed when the thudding of feet approached. When she did, finally, hear it, she fell back onto her bottom. She panted, blinked, then looked up at the intruder. Yes, it was there, standing across the pond from her. It was almost her mirror—that was her broad nose, her ears, her short quills, but there was something not quite right about the hedgehog across from her. Something about the set of its mouth, how its eyes sparkled with a sort of barely concealed malevolence.

“Hello!” said Amy.

The stranger waved its hand.

“Can’t you speak?”

It shrugged.

If this stranger did not have much to say, then Amy had plenty. She was full of stories, and she told them to it, one after the other. They all seemed to flow together at some point, until Amy wasn’t able to separate the story about the girl with the donkey skin from the story about the mermaid whose legs turned to seafoam. It was all one thing, one massive tapestry of wolves and monsters, boys raised by monkeys and girls who traded their mother for a pretty drum.

So it went, on and on, until the stranger tilted its head and asked, “Do you want to hear one of my stories?”

Its voice was an echo. Staticky, like her dads’ old radio. Amy nodded enthusiastically anyway. She sat cross-legged at the mouth of the water, skin pimpled with goosebumps.

“It’s a really good one. It’s about a fairy who gets stuck living with humans. She feels lonely and weird. Only…” The stranger frowned. “Only, I can’t tell it to you if you’re over there.”

“Over here?”

“It won’t sound the same if you’re not here with me. Plus, my storybook… I can’t remember the whole thing without the storybook, and I didn’t remember to bring it with me. Do you see what I mean?”

Amy didn’t. The stranger held its hand out to her, inviting her across, and Amy saw the flash of silver in its paws; sharp and uninviting. Besides, it was late at night, even the moon lost to her. No doubt her father was home right now, thinking Amy was in bed already. She wanted to get back to him, away from the water and the cold. Somehow, suddenly, the story didn’t sound all that fascinating, and the stranger across the water no longer intrigued her. Amy stood to her feet and told it goodbye.

“Wait!” cried the stranger. “Don’t you want to hear the story? Don’t you want to come with me?”

“No, thank you,” said Amy, and she continued on her way home, not-so-nice laughter and crickets nipping at her heels.