It's not real. It's not real. But there's still the roar of oncoming footsteps, the way the wind from its momentum tears at his hair and clothes and sends him stumbling back, landing heavily on his side. It's not real. It's not real, but the way the dirt stings at his cheek is, and he has to scramble upright.

"'S not real," he's still mumbling, bleary-eyed. The presence of two other children has hardly registered, it seems. "Isn't...isn't real."