The face is not his own. It is that of a boy he once knew; a close friend in ninth grade. Tiny Munroe lived across the street from his grandparents. Brian touched the glass and Tiny's face shimmered. It faded slightly and streaked with water as it began to rain.

A flash of lightning outlined a large weeping willow outside. It green strands waving in the wind that had picked up.

When the light receded, Tiny's face returned. The glass shook with thunder, forcing the lips to move. It appeared as if he was speaking.

"What?" Brian said. He was sure the lips were trying to say something.

He waited while the window was slowly covered with raindrops. Tiny's face was a little blurry.

"Come for me," the face said. Brian rubbed his eyes. "Come for me," it said again. Brian reached out to touch the glass. It was warm and soft.

Lightning flashed again causing him to jump. His hand slid through the glass, halfway up his forearm. It didn't hurt. There was no blood. The window seemed to be bending around his arm, accepting his hand. He couldn't see his own hand, but he turned it palm-up. No water pooled in the center; it was dry wherever his hand was.

He pulled his arm out and inspected it. Brian twisted his wrist in all directions and flexed his fingers. He punched his other hand. The slapping noise sounded normal.

"Come for me."

Brian pushed his hands through his hair and wiped the grease on his pants. He touched the glass again -- still malleable. Leaning forward, he touched his nose to the window. It was slightly warm. He closed his eyes and held his breath as he forced his face into the forgiving glass.

His nose broke through first. The air felt warm and dry. He inhaled and smelled sand and dust. There was something underlying in the air; something he couldn't quite place. It reminded him of a farm, but not with any animals that he recognized. Brian pushed harder, leaning farther. He opened his eyes. In front of him was a lone tree, but not anything he knew. It was short and long, maybe fifty feet, almost like a row of hedges but it had one clear trunk. The leaves were all about foot above the ground, not touching the ground in any place. The leaves were bright and purple.

What he saw certainly wasn't outside his window. He pulled back and into his own house. Tiny's face was gone, only a ripple from his exit was there. Tiny's voice lingered in his mind, it repeated over and over, "Come for me."

Brian remembered the summer he disappeared. They had been having a wonderful summer, playing ball, chasing stories, learning girls. But one night Tiny came to his window. He rapt sharply. The clock read 12:54 just before Brian slid up the sash of the window.

"What Tiny?"

"Come on. Let's go do something."

"What?"

"I don't know. It's time we get away." Tiny had a worried look on his face.

"Get away from what?"

"Just let's go," he pleaded.

"When will we be back?"

"Does it matter?"

"I can't, Tiny."

"Come for me." He took Brian's hand and tried pulling him out through the window. "Come on. For me."

Brian never saw him again. That last image of Tiny running away in the moonlight, his hair and clothes bouncing with every step. He couldn't let Tiny disappear again. Brian made up his mind; he was going through the window, wherever it went.