Amy scooped Irena into her arms and shot out through the door and into the hallway. She ran as fast as she could but was distressed to note that the hall's windows were passing in a blur reminiscent of a sketchy cartoon, and that the door at the end did not seem to be getting any closer. She slowed a bit and the windows came into better focus, but the trees outside them had a Van Gogh feel to them.
He still has us, she thought, mournfully. Where is he??
She hazarded a look back and nearly tripped as she saw the painted man standing stock still only ten feet behind her. The windows blurred past but he followed close without moving his feet. He was murmuring and sweating. His jaunty cap and perfectly painted lips had fallen askew, casualties of exertion.
"Why are you running from Papa, Amy?" Irena asked, her voice bouncing in time with Amy's running pace.
"He's not your Papa, Irena. I don't know who he is, but he's not your Papa," Amy replied. "You remember the stories I've told you about magicians? He has us in a spell. That's why the windows look funny." And I don't know how to escape! she added, silently.
What should Amy do?
Scream for help,
Turn around and Stare down the Man in White,
Stop fighting. Submit to his illusion.
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