“Ah yes,” she says. “I know you.”

She straightens up, brushing roaddust from her skirt. Her hair seems to have darkened, and ringlets jounce about her ears. As she slaps impatiently at the fabric of her clothes, you see that there is a stronger form to her back, her arms, her legs. Not so elderly at all. “Well, bub, come on. This way.”

You follow her off the thoroughfare, down an alley. She moves deftly ahead, lifting her skirts as she strides. Another alley. Another. Each turn is a turn to the left, one after the next, one after the next, and as you follow, you try to picture your progress as a line upon a map. It seems like a circle that continues to narrow, a spiral closing in on itself, a hand clenching at its own throat, and you move deeper and deeper into this strange town until you stand surrounded by tall buildings, and the sun is blotted, and all the shade that falls is dark. Just like shade.

And there is no sound.

And softly the woman steps through a doorway over which hangs a forebodingly familiar sign.

Captain’s Quarters.

You hesitate–your natural instinct is to turn and walk away.

But … you could follow her, couldn’t you? Even though it might be dangerous.

Better do it.