I remember it was late summer. I had slept and missed the months of June, July and August. Nobody had touched my shoulder or shaken me awake. Knowing that this would have been my role in other circumstances and knowing that I would have performed it well, I was bitter. Yes, I can say this here. I came stiffly into a room where everyone was talking and they turned so casually to look. I went for a walk. The door was open; the view was inviting in the way a painting of a garden gate invites, or the small space between a garage and a fence. I followed the path without wondering where it led. I remember rubbing my eyes, like a child in a story book. When the road branched I did not hesitate but took the left fork, quite confidently. I passed a family with a picnic on a tartan rug; they tossed me a quail’s egg and I have it even now in the side of my cheek, still whole. I did not want to leave the road. I definitely did not want to find a crawlspace between stones and spend a long night listening to owls in the branches. I had certainly meant to tell people of my whereabouts. I think at that stage I intended to return.