Soon all of the other children emerged from their houses, some holding baloons, others wearing cardboard hats. Each of them staring down the street, waiting, hoping. They were all twelve now, the magical age.
At 8 o'clock sharp, the summoners began to arrive. Some on motorcycles, some on horseback. They rode up right into the driveway and stared the children in the face.
"Okay," said the summoners, "Now that you're 12 we can reveal to you that you're special. You've got a destiny. You're the chosen one. It's up to you." And the children would jump into the spaceship or onto the dragon and fly off towards the world only they could save.
Randolph waited all day, but to no avail. Nobody came for him. He was not special. he had no grand destiny. He was not the chosen one.
"Happy birthday!" yelled his parents as he walked back into his house. "I'm not special," he said, oblivious to the cake and presents laid out upon the table. "I wasn't chosen."
"Oh, but you were chosen," said his mother, kneeling down to look her son in the eyes. "For the most important job of all, just like your father and I."
And so Randolph grew up, got a job, and made a family of his own. Years went by, and as heroes came and went, he and all of the other unchosen children kept the world alive and running. For it was their solemn duty and sacred task to keep it a place worth saving.
