"Gas?" I said. "Oh, you mean petrol."
"Yeah," said the new arrival, looking slightly confused at my English vocabularly. "Yeah, I do."
"Don't bother asking them," I said, jerking my head at the other inhabitants of the room. "They only just got here."
"Well, don't ask her, either," said the one that was second to arrive. Damn it. I'd forgotten their name already. "She only got here five minutes before me."
"Actually, I know where you can get some," I haughtily said, turning back to our new companion. "There's this room upstairs, see, and it's ... well, it's not normal. It does ... anything. Makes stuff. Etc."
"Sure it does."
"No, I'm telling the truth," I stated. I hated being called a liar.
"And how do you know, human?" says the weird thing with a horn.
"There's a map over there," I pointed out, smiling slightly. But I'd known about this place before I got here. It was a legend. The sign on the door had been there seven hundred years -
the hideout for misfit characters
No one but those lost from a story could find it, and only if their authors had particularly receptive minds. I'd read all about it, and when I lost my story, I set off immediately. I had a feeling that these people weren't quite so prepared, though ...