I wake up and everything seems mostly normal, but then I notice that the sheets feel different. The is pretty chilly, so I do my best to keep the blankets wrapped around me in my half-daze. The room smells slightly of cigarettes and pot, and the floor is littered with dirty clothes of mostly greens and earthtones. The furniture is cheap, but well broken-in, and the large bay windows barely hide the sunlight pouring into the room. There are paintings and posters, but nothing on the walls, everything is taken down.

The trees are the kind that lose all their leaves and needles in winter, and the grass and leaves are less than lush but not dead. A fiery autumn isn't obvious, but the air smells fresh.

It's not so much a path as a hole in the forest, where the branches and bushes are pushed away from an absence that winds through it.

The path fades away and leaves me perpendicular to a shallow stream. It's not even ankle deep, but wide enough that one would have to bound several times to ford it. The water is flowing through rocks and fallen branches, but not at a strong speed.

It's a thick blue plastic mug.

It's long, thin, and brass, but has a round head. It looks like a post office box key.