It's a quarter to nine when I look at the cerulean clock on my wall. I've only been gone for forty-five minutes? It seems much longer since I flew away from my room. That must be because of the strange surrounding I keep entering.

I stare at my hand and realize horrified that the bandage is still there. That means it really happened. And, even worse, I took the injury with me over the barrier of time and space. There goes my theory of being a copy. This is real, tangible and very painful. I moan when I get up, the book slides of my lap and falls on the floor with a thud. Just leave it there. All of a sudden it's a lot less fun jumping into stories. Not a chance in hell I'll journey along with Frodo on his way to Mount Doom. Sorley must have been lying about the fall that caused him no harm. Why would he do that?

A little too rough I pull off the bandage from my hand. Maybe I ought to get the medkit first, before I leave a bloody trail in the house. Although, it's more trustworthy to get the medkit while I'm bleeding. More than walking down already covered in bandage. My mum will never believe it was already in my room. And not a chance I'm telling her about the booklet. My aversion against paper caused us enough trouble as it is. Including complete panic-attacks. Books are probably the main reason for our lofty relationship. Let's not make it worse.

The gauze is stuck to the dried blood and when I put it under running water of my little sink, the wound opens back up. Only a little. I ball my hand into a fist, dry it off as best I can and hurry down to the kitchen where the medkit should be.

My rummaging in the cabinets draws my mothers attention and when she comes in to take a look, I quickly explain: "Accident, stupid scissors, no big deal. The medkit was over here, wasn't it?"

She doesn't comment, merely shakes her head and opens the very last cabinet. Figures, the kit is in there. I don't have to look at her when I open my hand, to know she thinks the wound is a little too big for a simple accident.

"What in heavens name were you doing with scissors to get a slash like that?"

"I dropped it and grabbed it too hard." Will she believe it? I'm usually not such a clutz. The box with band aids for children has never even been opened.

To distract her I hold up a roll of bandage. "I can use some help."

The response I get is a sigh, as if I've ruined her entire evening. Yet, she pulls the kit close and takes out a little brown bottle first. The iodine stings a bit, but the wound already stopped bleeding. With a paper towel I pat my hand dry and receive a new gauze. Exactly the same, how unusual.

This roll of bandage is also too long, but my mother doesn't wind it completely around my hand. A little included Swiss pocket knife has a tiny scissors and she uses it to cut of the remainder. My eye catches the logo on the red metal and I inhale.

"Oh, please, I didn't pull that hard."

What? What is my mum talking about? She washes her hands and disappears from the kitchen, while I'm frozen, staring at the knife.

The mark: a little silvery cross inside some sort of crest-shape, is the same as the one on Sorley's knife. That's what made it look so familiar.

I leave the kit on the counter, bounce up the stairs in five steps with the folded blade in my good hand and open my laptop. Wikipedia gives me the answer I seek. Long live Wikipedia. Swiss Army knife, blah blah blah, pictures, I need pictures. There. 1890. That is close to the year the book was written. The knife on the picture looks just as it ought to look when it's that old. A wooden handle and a blade that couldn't possibly be stainless steel. It doesn't look anything like the knife I'm holding and frankly it doesn't look like Sorley's knife either. That is more like the model beneath it. Completely silver, with smooth, shiny tools. However, the year that is mentioned makes my forehead wrinkle. 1961. Impossible.

I have to know right now. Is he kidding me or am I just crazy?

My foot kicks the crumpled heap of bandages on the floor aside when I pick up the booklet and open it where I left of. The ribbon flies up, but the flash keeps me from seeing anything else.

I end up in the attic room, where the light is dim, due to the setting sun and the presence of just one lamp. An oil lamp. Clearly electricity hasn't found his way to this corner of Ireland yet. This time I'm standing next to the bed, just like in my room, which at the moment I don't care about. I'm angry when I turn around, looking for Sorley, but when I find him, my anger blows away like a balloon that's set loose without a knot.

He's sitting on the bed, his head hidden in his arms that lean on his raised knees. He hasn't heard me yet.

"Sorley?" I almost whisper.

With a jolt his head jerks up and then he quickly wipes his sleeve over his eyes. Too late. I already saw the tears. Are those about me? About what happened?

My hand comes up in a weak imitation of a wave, but he doesn't see it. His eyes are focused on my other hand and when I look down I notice I brought the red Army knife with me. Something of my previous irritation finds his way back into my voice when I ask: "What's going on, Sorley? It's not right, something's not right. This book, you, the knife. And my wound. Did you lie, before? About the fall? Whas that a lie?"

It seems to last an eternity, but it's probably just a few minutes later that he eventually looks at me. I don't want to stay angry, he looks so broken.

"I didn't lie", he finally responds with a very deep sigh. "I don't know why you did get hurt." There's a pause after those words, as if there's more to come, but doesn't.

"Where does your knife come from? Did you get it from a different book? Because I looked it up on Wikipedia and it shouldn't even exist yet in this period."

A tormented smile appears on his face before he speaks again. Only it isn't an answer.

"Who cares. All is lost now."

All is lost. All is lost? Why does that sentence sound so familiar? I plop down on the empty chair and look at Sorley. His gaze, focussed on the floor, is so sad that I want to get up and wrap my arms around him. I bite my lip instead.

And all of a sudden I know. Where it's from, that sentence. All is lost now. It's in the booklet with the blue, linen cover. The book I'm reading right now. The tale about Sorley, who looses his best friend because he gets out of the story.

My eyes widen and my mouth falls open. The proverbial pieces of the puzzle, who were flying around my head in a whirlwind a minute ago, all fall to the floor with a humongous bang. Right in front of my feet. And the solution is screaming at me how incredibly stupid I've been.

"You ... you're a paper walker as well."

For a second he eyes me with a look that is a little less sad. I ignore the unspoken scoff and say, in an attempt to sound like my mother when she's upset with me: "This is not your story."

He knows I figured it out and the knowledge I'm right makes me get up and walk around. I go to the only door in the room and pull the knob, but the door won't open.

"Why is the door locked? You know it won't hold me here."

"I didn't lock it."

"What? Do they lock you in here every night?"

Sorley heaves a deep sigh, drops his legs over the edge of the bed and says: "It's always locked for you."

That ... doesn't make sense at all. "That means, I never could have gone outside?" There goes my plan to see the building and walk around in nineteenth century Ireland. But, then how is this possible? How can we both be here at the same time? How?

"How?"

"I don't know, I'm no expert."

"But you wrote this book!" I yell at him. Maybe someone will come up to see why we make so much noise.

"I haven't written anything!" He shouts right back at me.

Am I wrong? Isn't Sorley the author? I don't get it any more and feel nasty tears pricking behind my eyelids.

"Listen."

I sniff and blink ferociously to keep from crying, that would be pathetic. He looks at me with his brown and green speckled eyes and at least I'm glad he doesn't sound so angry any more.

"I never expected to meet another paper walker, let alone inside a book. I don't know what you thought, but this isn't my story. This is Michael's story, Michael O'Shea and I've been walking with him. That is, until you showed up and messed everything up."

An indignant huff leaves my mouth, but I swallow my remarks. After all, he just lost his best friend.

This wasn't in the booklet. The reason why Sorley had to leave the book. I gasp when I realize it's my fault. It was me, the reason he left the book and I stare at my hand. He left the book to get the bandage for me, when I was dumb enough to squeeze a sharp knife. It's my fault he lost his best friend.

No longer capable to support my own weight, I drop down on the floor.

My fault.

"I'm sorry." Something wet hits my cheek and annoyed I rub away the tear. "You could have said something, you know, in the beginning. All this is confusing enough. Do you know I've only read three books in the last ten years, real paper books, I mean. For years I had to pretend I couldn't read or that I hated it. Do you know how many fights I had with my parents about those stupid books? And then finally, I find a booklet that explains a little bit about what is happening and I meet you and this happens."

My fingers pick the loose ends of the bandage. I'm afraid to look him in the eye because I'm sure he blames me for everything. I'm not even sure why he's still here. Or did he leave? It's so quiet all of a sudden. When I raise my head an see him sitting on the chair, I breathe a sigh of relief.

"I'm sorry", I repeat and stay silent.

"Me too", he finally mumbles.

"Is Sorley your real name?"

A laugh escapes him. "Aye, Sorley Connor. At your service."

I give him a dull smile, get up and hold out my none injured hand. "Zara Jacobs." When he stands up and takes it, I get goosebumps.

The notion that he is a full head taller than me and has a strong grip, gets quickly moved to the back of my brain when he asks: "Do you really come from the Netherlands?"

"Yes, and you? Ireland?"

He lets go of my hand, allowing me to breath again. Somehow it's much more complicated now that I know he's a real person, who walks around somewhere on this same world as me. At least, I think so."

At the same time I ask: "Are you in 2019?" he says: "No, America."

"And yes, it's 2019", he adds with a laugh. But then he gets serious. "Although, it might have been a different period of course. That would have made this a lot trickier." He frowns.

In the mean time I'm trying to process the fact I'm standing here talking to someone from the United States. That he spoke English already proved to me he didn't live next door, but America is so far away.

My eyes are scanning the room again for a place to look at, because he's still right in front of me. I guess I should just sit down again. I'm actually relieved he didn't run away.

From my seat on his bed, I watch him critically and then I notice something I hadn't noticed before. "Hey, your clothes. You were wearing something else earlier." When did that happen? His brown trousers and cardigan over a white blouse got replaced by black tracksuit bottoms and a green T-shirt that says in big letters: DUH!!

He regretfully eyes himself. "Yeah, I wore a period outfit here. I changed, figured I didn't have to any more."

Was he wearing this when he got the bandage? No, I would have noticed. His hair is different as well. Muddled, as if he just got out of bed.

"Hey, but, if you're in America, shouldn't your watch say something different than mine?"

He looks at his wrist and I follow his gaze, he's now wearing a simple black sports watch.

"It does now. Apparently the book adjusted it's time to yours earlier. This is my time. One twenty five PM"

"It's almost nine thirty over here." For a while I stare at my watch without actually seeing anything. A bomb just went of in my head and now all my thoughts whirl around trying to find a spot. It's gonna take some time to settle.

"I eh... maybe I better go. To sleep."

He nods. Is that disappointment I see? I quickly add: "Same time tomorrow?"

Biting my lip, I wait for him to look at me again. When he does, he asks, with a puzzled expression: "Eight o'clock your time?"

"Oh, right, that must be in the middle of the day for you." Now, my forehead wrinkles, how did he do this before? Oh right, he was in that other book the whole time. Before I can suggest to pick a different time – although I wouldn't know what time would be good for both of us – he waves his hand and says: "No matter, it's fine."

How come? Is it vacation over there?

Suddenly I want proof. I want to be sure he won't just disappear from my life. Like a once in a lifetime dream you'll never learn the end off.

"Where do you live, In America I mean, where exactly?"

"Why? Are you gonna google me?"

Hearing him say that modern word makes me laugh. I hadn't even thought about that. But now he mentions it, yes, that's exactly what I'm going to do.

"I live in Boulder, Colorado. Nearby there's even a place called Nederland. That's the Netherlands in Dutch, isn't it?"

I nod. Boulder, Colorado. I'm going to remember that. Sorley Connor from Boulder. I hope there's only one of them over there and has a social media account of something.

As if he reads my mind, he gives me a crooked smile. Is he going to google me? That idea is weird. Oh, don't forget to take my phone with me tomorrow. I can't believe I haven't thought about that before. So stupid. I want to have proof. Of this room, the desk, him.

My cheeks are on fire when I look at him one last time. Then I lift my hand and mumble: "Paper walker, the end."

---

Nine forty, time enough to crawl behind my laptop. But first I get rid of the dirty bandages and place the booklet neatly on my night stand. A shiver runs down my spine when my fingertips slide over the linen. I quickly shake off the unexplainable bad feeling. Nothing is going to happen and I see him again tomorrow.

I flick on my desk light, because it got dark in my room. Sorley Connor. Sorley is a pretty strange name. Back when I thought he was Irish, it was plausible, but not any more. Maybe his ancestors immigrated and he inherited the name. Or his mother had a fetish for Ireland. What would it mean?

Google is my friend, for only after a few clicks it tells me Sorley means summer traveller. That really is an awesome name.

My fingers shake when I type his full name in the search bar. Hmm, no direct link. Apparently Sorley is used frequently as a last name, but there is no Sorley Connor with an Instagram account, or Facebook, Snapchat or Pinterest, not even Twitter. How disappointing. And also very annoying, because now I still don't fully believe he's real.

I look up Boulder. Wow, that is truly ... amazing. I'm jealous. He lives next to the freaking Rocky Mountains.

A few clicks later – okay, maybe more than a few – I hear footsteps on the stairs and look at the clock. Oh shoot, it's already eleven o'clock and I have an English test. Oh well, it's not like I haven't been practising these last few days.

I close my laptop, put on my pyjamas, brush my teeth and climb in bed.

Tomorrow I'll see him again.