When Kiri was a kid, Uncle Jim’s concepts of portals and other dimensions of reality seemed absurd. But then the kid grew up.

It was then, Kiri’s already small town became microscopic.

“Next year,” Uncle Jim would say. “Next year we’ll move to a great big city.”

But next year turned into the next—and into the next.

Now it was easy for Kiri to hope a portal would open from below and drag her into some other world. The prospect had become more entertaining than the dramas of the neighbors across the street. It had become more interesting than the illegal drugs circulating around town—which the police joined in on when they weren’t hanging around the cafes snickering at the local farmer’s news.

Honestly, at this point, a portal wouldn’t be the most unwelcome thing to ever happen in these grassy plains.

So Kiri just waited out the days. Got up in the morning. Went to college. Studied, applied for a scholarship or two. Went to work. Went home. Ate and slept. And then repeated the process in no particular order.

Either one of two things had to happen now: some scholarship money or the portal. And it looked like the portal was winning.