Billy Bumbridge was a brave little boy. Just the sort of curious boy to have found it very strange to see thousands of mysterious fliers plastered all about town. He took one down and marveled at the mystery of it for a week's worth of many long hours. He had traced the multi-colored crayon craftsmanship of the letters several times over, until he'd rubbed them nearly completely off. Then came the day.

When his parents put him to bed, he had pretended to fall asleep. He listened with ears and eyes wide open. Watched the lights of his house flicker on and off through the crack under his bedroom door. Heard the creaks and moans of the floorboards until they were no more. Stared at his clock and listened to the hollow echo of the minutes ticking by. Until he saw the numbers creep closer and closer to midnight.

He sat up in his bed slowly and peered expectantly at the closet door across the way. He pulled the curious flier out from under his pillow and clutched it to his lap. At twelve ticking tocks after midnight, his closet door flung itself open and smacked against the wall. It gave him such a fright that he leaped clear from his bed, but did not stop there. The amazing uncertainty of this single warned-about moment sent him tumbling into the hall beyond his room, flinging his paper high and shouting to the entire dreaming household: "It's real! It's real! It's really, really real!"

None had chance to ask him precisely what he was screaming about in his buzzing excitement, and Billy Bumbridge didn't rightly know himself. Only two long hours later did his parents finally find him, still racing through the city streets and shouting his revelation to the stars. It is believed he was hauled back to his bed by his ear and scolded soundly for waking the neighbors.