Did you know that there are over five thousand, two hundred, eighty seven species of slugs in the world? Well, I don’t. There might be more—and to be honest, there might be less. I’m not sure. If you’re so interested in slugs, you can probably look it up in a book that’s inside a library that happens to be part of a large, distinguished university, filled with people who care with unbridled enthusiasm about the particular density of the slime of a very certain, select group of the genus, Acochlidium. But this isn’t that kind of book. I don’t know how many slugs actually exist, and to be completely honest—slugs don’t have anything to do with this story other than this: when Lyle Anderson wakes up, he’s slower than the entire species strapped together like a wiggly, slimy, slithering blob.


This is Lyle.


This is Lyle waking up.


This is a bunch of slugs.


See the resemblance?


I know what you’re thinking: He’s short. He’s scrawny. He’s especially not much to look at, but Lyle is our main character and we can’t all be plucky young lads chosen by the fates to fulfill cryptic prophecies of apocalyptic doom.


And even worse?


That whole bit about the slugs really doesn’t matter, because today Lyle Anderson was already wide awake. Unfortunately, he was also very late.