There is a smell. Felt, dust, something vaguely sweet like artificial fruit flavoring. The surface beneath is firm but not hard, covered in fabric that is slightly rough against skin. A sofa.

A room gradually assembles itself from the edges of vision. A wooden coffee table scattered with crayons and crumpled paper. A television set with a wooden veneer, bulky and old. A lamp shaped like an oversized sunflower. The walls are papered in a cheerful pattern of repeating ducks, yellow bill's wide and unchanging.

Somewhere nearby, a voice speaks without preamble. It is flat, matter-of-fact.