Then—light.

It hits you like a physical force. Bright. Yellow. Burning. You throw your arm up, but it's too late—the world has already seared itself into your retinas. White-hot spots dance across your vision. You blink. Blink again. The world swims into focus through the tears streaming down your cheeks.

You are standing in a forest. But not like the upside down. No. This is wrong. Everything is wrong.

The air smells like damp earth and pine and something sweet you don't have a name for. The sky is a pale, almost blue color—not the sickly red you've known for three years. And the light. The light is coming from a single source. A burning yellow ball hanging in the sky. It's huge. It's terrifying. It's beautiful.

Beneath your bare feet, the ground is cool and soft and covered in fallen leaves. Green leaves. Not dead. Not rotting. Alive.

Your dress clings to you, the white fabric stained and torn and three years old. You hug your arms around yourself, fingers numb. The air is cold. You've never felt cold like this before. Only the damp, cloying chill of the upside down.

You turn slowly, taking in the world you've been dreaming of for so long.

Trees. A rusted fence. In the distance, a building. Brick. A flagpole. The word painted on the side of the building is faded, but you can just make out the letters.

M-I-D-D-L-E. Middle. School. Hawkins Middle School.