There is no ceiling. There is sky — a wide, bruise-colored expanse, still dark, holding the last few stars in the corner of the eye. The grass beneath is soft and tufted, and it comes up past the elbows.

A cluster of small white flowers is bent over, close enough to brush Y/n's cheek.

This is not a bed.

Time passes. The sky shifts from deep blue to gray, then to a paler gray, and the dew gets heavier, and then begins to dry. A bird starts up somewhere, not quite a bird, or a bird with something wrong with its voice.

The rustle comes first. Then the voices.

They're coming from further down the slope, past a low rise in the field, and they're getting closer. Footsteps, four sets, and the sound of something being dragged over wet grass.