Um.

Saher thinks for a moment.

In our case, I believe it was ðormselu, one of the founders of the town. He saw how many cows people had gotten together to graze the newly cleared commons, and suggested that there were possibly too many, and they would need to allocate more pasture.

She tucks her hands into her armpits and rocks a little.

I don't want to be distracted from a thing I think is more important. Do you have caretakers that you want to be informed of your whereabouts?

Emily puts a finger to her lip in thought.

Yes, but it is okay if they can't be contacted, because I expect this to be impossible.

She looks at her own hands after saying that, trying to mentally replay the grammar involved. This language does something interesting with connectives.

There's no harm in trying the impossible, Saher states, with the smooth fluidity of an oft-repeated proverb. What are their postal handles?

Emily frowns.

I don't know what those are. Do you mean a mailing address?

Now it is Saher's turn to frown.

I mean ... I guess a physical address would be fine, if you expect them to be there? I meant the kind of address that follows them around to wherever they are — like, it would route a call to their phone.

Oh! Emily nods. That makes sense. Their phone number is one six and two, zero, two, five, four, five, one six and three, zero, one, six.

And then she pauses, and mentally replays that note in her head.

Uh. If you use base six, I don't know how you would enter that on a phone, she remarks. I thought everywhere used base one six and four.

Nowhere ... uses base six and four, Saher signs, slowly. I think it is most likely that you are playing a joke on me. Nobody uses this language without converting to base six, usually from base two sixes.

I am not joking with you, Emily replies, doing her best to look serious and trustworthy. As I said, I think I'm from a lot farther away. Oh!

She holds up her book for Saher to see.

Can you read that?

Saher squints at the cover, making no move to take the book.

No, I can't. That's not too surprising, though. There are a lot of secret languages. Dot matrix printing made typesetting them much more feasible.

Emily is immediately captivated by the idea of books in secret languages, but she restrains herself.

Well, this is in my native language, English. I don't think English is a secret. I didn't speak this one until you started signing at me.

Saher sits for a moment, and then stands, gesturing for Emily to follow her.

This is sufficiently weird that I think we should both drink some water and eat some crackers. Doing that is unlikely to make things worse, and might make things better if I'm hallucinating or you have some kind of linguistic amnesia.

She leads the way through a screen door and into a tidy little kitchen, where she fills two tall glasses with water, and hands one to Emily, before reaching up to rummage through a cupboard for crackers.

Drinking or eating anything isn't going to trap me here, is it? Emily signs with her other hand.

Saher looks at her in confusion.

What? No, not at all. And if you've been reading books like that, I think they might deal with topics which you're too young to fully appreciate, unless you're particularly precocious. Consider talking with a trusted adult about them.

She pulls down the crackers, and arranges them on a plate with some crumbles of cheese fetched from the refrigerator.

I'm six and five! Emily protests. Well, nearly. I will be in a few six day periods.

She goes to cross her arms, realizes she's still holding the water, chugs it, sets the glass down, crosses her arms, and then uncrosses them so she can keep talking.

And I'm certainly old enough to be reading fairy stories!

I did not mean to offend you, Saher replies, a phrase which this language renders as a single gesture — albeit with a slightly complex finger wiggle.

Its certainly not my place to tell you what to read, she continues. But the books I've read that deal with that sort of thing usually also have complex sex in them, and many young people find it helpful to talk about complex sex with one of their trusted adults in order to contextualize some of the genre conventions. When I was young, I remember my parent was able to recommend a great introductory series — Princes of Perá — that helped me understand how those kinds of books work.

Well, alright, Emily agrees. Anyone who gives out book recommendations can't be that bad. But I don't think fairy stories usually have sex in them — maybe some of the old ones, like the Brothers Grimm do? I've read The Yellow Fairy Book and The Blue Fairy Book, but I haven't gotten around to the Brothers Grimm yet.

Saher draws them both back outside, and sets down the plate between them. She takes a cracker and a puff of cheese for herself.

Getting back to the main topic — that number you gave me isn't formatted correctly for a Network handle. Quite apart from being in base six and four, it's six and four digits long. That would be, let me see ...

She mouths to herself for a moment.

Four and three sixths times six to the two sixes. Huh. That is actually about the right order of magnitude, not counting the check digit.

She picks up her notebook and flips to a new page.

Could you repeat the number? I'll try converting it to base six in case you were just ... raised by some kind of six-and-four cult.

I don't think it was a cult, Emily protests. Unless they reprinted all of the books in the library? And installed some kind of Network filter? Everywhere uses base six and four.

She then dutifully repeats her parent's phone number.

Saher scribbles for a minute, and then pulls a phone from a hidden pouch inside her shirt and punches in a sequence of digits.

She then writes a few quick messages back and forth, using the back of her pen as a stylus.

That's the number of a pizza restaurant in Largest City, she finally concludes. Which ... I don't really know where that leaves us. 

While she was scribbling, Emily cautiously nibbled one of the crackers. When no apparent magic happened, she went on to eat quite a lot of the rest of cheese and crackers. Walking through the forest made her hungrier than she thought.

Well, like I said, I expected it to be impossible, Emily points out. I think this has to be another planet, at least, even if its not another dimension. It can't be time-travel, because you have solar panels.

Saher comes to a decision, and pushes herself up again.

I, she signs, am going to call Emergency Services. Water and food didn't make any of this less confusing. And you didn't appear to notice when I switched to my native Dark Forest sign, which I wouldn't expect you to have learned unless you put a lot of thought into arranging a prank.

She picks up her phone again, taps a series of buttons, and then props it on the railing of the porch, facing her.

"Emergency Services. What is the nature of your emergency?"

No immediate threat to life or property — just a really confusing situation. I'm worried someone here is hallucinating.

I have a young person here with a confusing set of claims — they came out of the woods, claimed not to speak Larger Continent Trade Language until I started signing at them, and didn't notice at all when I switched languages.

Saher glances at Emily.

They say they're from very far away, didn't recognize any local place names, and when I asked about contacting their caretakers, gave me a contact code in base six and four — it didn't work. They also seem to think they might be in a story in a genre I've never heard of. I've given them water, some water crackers, and cheese.

They're wearing clothes in an unfamiliar style, have no active devices my phone can detect, and were carrying a book printed in a language I don't know.

"Angle the camera so I can talk to them, please. I'll get their explanation, and let you know if you're having comprehension problems," the dispatcher says.

Thank you, Saher signs, rotating the phone a bit so that it catches both herself and Emily.