We are not afraid.

This isn’t home. Or at least it isn’t to me.

Steve. Steve isn’t here anywhere. I can’t feel him, or Missing Mile, anywhere. I hope he’s safe under the sticky molasses heat. I hope he’s safe, dreaming by himself for awhile. Safe from the spirits tapping on the T-bird’s windows.

There are stories here to tell, but they’re quiet, hushed. I wonder if they want sound. Or maybe they want light, but there is no moon to light their way, or mine.

Dreaming of a dead place, hm. Most people would be worried, but this wouldn’t be my first time. I wonder if Steve will like this tale when I wake up, or if it will bother him like the others.