It’s not exactly that she yelled at him.  It’s just that she got that look in her eyes, the one that suggests it would be best to spend the next few hours out of the house while she sorts out the mess.  It’s also not exactly that Chris intended to knock over her files, but his mother was just as upset as though it had been deliberate.  Leaving the paper-strewn office behind, Chris ventures outside to where there are no stacks of files to upset.  He takes with him a box of sidewalk chalk.  It’s hard to disorganize the sidewalk.

The chalk is smooth beneath his fingers, yielding to the rough concrete.  It glides into the crevices until the surface of the sidewalk is completely smoothed over.  Not paying much attention to what he is drawing, Chris lets thoughts slide through his mind as the chalk slides over the sidewalk.  The sidewalk is never scolded, it’s not even noticed by most people.  No one is ever disappointed in the sidewalk.  It’s simply there.  He wonders if the sidewalk ever notices the people passing over it.  He wonders if other people ever ask this question and decides on probably not.  It seems a pointless thing to ask, but there’s some sort of solid presence about the sidewalk, almost as if it could have a consciousness of its own.  That’s not really something a person notices when just walking over it, but Chris senses it now with his fingers rubbing the chalk into the grooves of the cement.  The skin on the pads of his fingers is cool and dry and worn smooth by the roughness of the sidewalk, soothed by the smoothness of the chalk.

He pauses for a moment to examine his creation.  It’s a door.  A door at the base of a flight of steps.  The chalk is thick on the cement, he’s rubbed so much of it into the sidewalk.  It almost seems as real as the sidewalk itself.  Just as physical, just as solid.  Just as conscious.  At certain angles, it almost looks to be sinking into the ground, the steps leading to a door who knows how far into the cement.  It’s a childish thought, but Chris can almost believe it is real.  He pauses for a moment, running his fingers over the rail by the steps which seems as cool as though it were really metal.  He is sensing its pulse.  The faintest thrum of energy, the barest sense of time and space.  The longer he feels it, the more it grows.  The door at the end of those steps is the only thing he sees.  A faint glow seems to radiate out from behind, pushing through the cracks around the edge.  The glow and the pulse saturate his senses.

A crash sounds from the back of his house followed by muffled cursing.  Chris’s head snaps up at the sound of it.  No doubt another file box has been knocked over in his mother’s attempt to straighten out the others.  He looks at the front door of his house, dark gray, peeled paint.  He looks back at the chalk door.  Still glowing, energy still flowing.  He sets foot on the top step.  It’s solid beneath him.  Looking around warily, he steps down to the next step.  It’s there.  It’s not so much that he moves down, more that the world moves up a foot around him.  Another step, the world moves up again.  When he reaches the door, the world is above his head.  Without a second thought, he puts a hand to the door, pushes it open, and walks through.