Thousand: Six Hundred Seventy-Eight

a tenuous fog gathers. Great. I’m going to get swallowed up by that fog after all, the girl thinks. She’s chilly again and wishing for the jacket she left in the hands of the paranoid zombie. She rubs her shirtsleeves with her hands, then reaches up, stretches toward the. It’s a night sky, she realizes, lowering her arms. Stars in a night sky. The fog the milky way. She climbs down from the chair and finds herself standing on the hard packed clay of a desert highway. “Knock knock,” she says. The tables are gone, the chairs are gone, the