"PRISONER ZERO HAS ESCAPED."
Amelia Pond squeezed her eyes shut, then snapped them back open. It had been 10 days now since the voices had started, and she still had no way of blocking them from piercing her dreams. She clamped her hands over her ears, and strained to listen for the voice. Nothing. She sighed, relieved, but her breath caught in her throat as she heard it again: "PRISONER ZERO HAS ESCAPED."
She crawled out from beneath her quilt and quickly flipped on her lamp. She felt like crying out, but that would be silly to do if no one was there to answer. Instead she crept out of the room, eying the grinning crack on her wall from which the voices whispered, and ran down the stairs into the kitchen.
As she prepared a glass of water, she checked the clock. Nearly nine. It occurred to her that Aunt Sharon shouldn't have left her alone at night, and she pulled a face. She returned to her room, slower than she had left, not so much cautious as reluctant. She set down her glass on the nightstand, glancing at the apple her mother had left there. Decidedly, she knelt on the floor and put her hands together.
"Dear Santa," she began. It was silly to pray, but if you're going to do it, better pray to someone who actually does things for you.
"Thank you for the dolls, and the pencils. And the fish. It's Easter now, so I hope I didn't wake you, but honest it is an emergency. There's a crack on my wall." She peeked over at the crack, almost worried that it had heard her. It managed to look innocent, but she knew better.
She continued, "Aunt Sharon says it's just an ordinary crack, but I know it's not, because at night there's voices. So please, please could you send someone to fix it. Or a policeman. Or...." She stopped, unsure of who else could come to help. Perhaps Santa would provide.
But then, the wind began to howl. It was a terrible noise, not like any wind that she heard before. The trees creaked. And then, CRASH! Something had crashed in the garden. She had to look.
"Back in a moment," she said to Santa. She grabbed the torch on her nightstand and ran to look out the window. Smoking in the garden, where the shed should have been, was a large, blue, rectangular box. It even looked like a Christmas present she might receive under the tree, without the ribbon. She could read words on the far end of each side: "POLICE CALL BOX."
Santa had delivered, and she whispered her thanks.
In less than a minute, she was outside. She approached the police box with mild reservation. Should she knock? There didn't appear to be a door. Without warning, the top of the box was flung open, smoke billowing out. A hook flew out from inside. It was a grappling hook, but who - or what - was on the other end? Hands appeared, gripping the edge of the box. Amelia was in suspense. At last, a face popped up- a man's face. It was a man, a drenched man inside the box. Flabbergasted, Amelia didn't know what to say. And then he spoke.
"Can I have an apple?"
