Foldspace

Edgar needs to go to Phoenix.
He pulls out his world map, makes a few folds, and he’s now just a few minutes walk from Phoenix.
“Relative Foldspace” he calls it, in between cigarettes.
I call it Voodoo.
“It doesn’t hurt anybody,” he says. “It just folds my relative space.”
He smokes another, ashes fall on the map.
Brushes them off. “Thought it would set the world on fire?”
With a shout, he tears the map in half.
I recover from my fainting spell to the sound of Edgar laughing. “It’s just a focus. It ain’t the world.”
Is it?