One moment you were driving home from the video store, a carton of lemonade on the passenger seat, the summer heat pressing through the open windows. The next, you're standing in a space that shouldn't exist. A great, black-red void stretches in every direction, a cathedral of nothing. There's a hum. Low and wet, like a heartbeat through mud.

Distantly, as if from the bottom of a well, you hear shouting. Muffled. Desperate. It sounds like Dustin, but you can't make out the words.

You're here. But you're also somewhere else.

You try to move. To call out. Your body won't obey. A terrible pressure holds you down—invisible hands pressing on your chest, your arms, your throat. You can feel the cold grass of the real world against your palms, but you can't feel your fingers. You're a passenger in your own skin.

And then, the voice comes.