The faux compliment had been an obvious jab at his appearance, but his teacher had said nothing. She had sent him over to his new desk among the wolves, to sit and pick at the peeling stegosaurus while the rest of the class snickered and stared. He had felt like his glasses were a huge, infected wound on his face, one that would never heal. He had wanted so badly to take them off, to have normal eyes like everyone else. That dream wasn't the hand he had been dealt in life and would prove to be just one of many more bad hands to come.
When he finally woke up in front of the popping fire, it was obvious what had triggered his recollections of being a first-grade loser. A group of disheveled looking men sat in a circle around him, staring him down like he had two heads and muttering to one another just like his classmates had. Emmit sat up slowly, bringing his knees up to his slight chest and hugging them defensively. He made himself look up at them, but only for brief glances. He felt like a dog, waiting for the swat of a rolled-up newspaper because he had dropped a log on the living room carpet.
"He ain't even got any meat on him," came a scratchy, serpentine voice. "He ain't gonna do us any good."
"It's not like we get a wide selection of new people these days, Poke," said a smooth, intelligent sounding man. “He could be a decent ally.”
"Wonder what he did," came another voice from behind the others, one that sounded youthful, a kid. "Dude looks like a pedo."
"I didn't do anything," Emmit snarled, before he had even realized he was speaking. The silence that followed was heavy with awkward mistrust. He fidgeted with his glasses nervously.
"Everyone shut the fuck up," came the thundering bear's voice that Emmit recognized. He heard the weighty thud of boots crossing the floor, and the small crowd of men parted like the Red Sea. Emmit looked up from his little bed, which had been made for him at the mouth of a small square fireplace. The man with the black handprint over his face was like a skyscraper above him, his eyes still wild but now somehow more compassionate. They were a piercing blue. He knelt in front of Emmit, resting his thick forearms across his knees.
"How are you feeling? Better?"
Emmit nodded slowly, subconsciously wiggling all his fingers and toes to make sure they were still there and working.
"Confused?"
Emmit nodded again. He opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it again. It felt wrong to speak, just as it had when he had been paraded in front of his new first grade classmates.
"We've all been where you are," the marked man said calmly. "My name is Roy. I'm the one that built this camp, so think of me as the captain of the ship."
Emmit held his hand out for the big man to shake, which he did, his giant hand swallowing Emmit's whole.
"You're also the one that saved me," Emmit said quietly, giving the giant's hand one last firm shake to accentuate the point. "I'm Em—"
"We don't tell each other our names," came the raspy voice again, from the man who had been addressed as Poke. "We all use nicknames. Only Roy uses his name because he never has to be the Provider."
The Provider?
"If you say another word Poke," Roy grumbled, "You'll be the next Provider."
Emmit saw a sickly-looking man near the corner of the cabin raise his hands above his head, and his mouth indeed stayed shut. The flames flickered behind him, casting long shadows across the room that obscured the faces of the men he shared it with. Although he knew they were staring at him, it made it easier to relax when he didn't have to see them.
"We have a routine when someone new stumbles into our woods," Roy continued, more sternly. "We have one small test for you. If you pass it, you'll be invited in and given food, clothing, and weapons. We also introduce ourselves, get to know you, and try to answer some of your questions. If you fail..."
Roy didn't have to elaborate on what would happen if one were to fail his test. His grim face and unwavering eyes, rigid as a burial vault behind the black handprint, seemed to scream at Emmit that he would be killed. But he would also be killed wandering alone and confused through the woods, where he would die of exposure or one of the living dead would finish the job.
"I won't fail," Emmit said, trying to sound brave but his voice cracking. A drop of sweat slowly trickled down his forehead.
Roy stood, his knees cracking like two monstrous rawhide whips. He gestured for Emmit to stand as well, then scooped up the blanket and wrapped it around Emmit's shoulders. He patted him on his back like a father leading his son to bed, except the friendly pat didn't make Emmit feel any sense of warmth and belonging. It felt obscene, sending goosebumps up and down his body. Those same hands might be used to kill him soon.
"Keep the blanket," Roy said. "We're going back outside."
Full dark had fallen upon the enigmatic forest and there was no silvery disc of moon in the sky to provide any light. As
