There is an opportunity to answer correctly and then that door closes forever. Lifetimes are spent waiting for it to open again. There are miles and miles of scrubland riddled with fire trails; it seems the only purpose of this place is to burn down every few years. The hum of power lines proves that civilisation still exists, but that it exists elsewhere. It's a place to return to every now and then, like the surface of the moon. The paths fork, criss-cross and double back on themselves but it is never possible to cut a different trail. The question - more of a plea, really - was perhaps answered correctly after all. Perhaps there was only one form the answer could take, whatever the words. These days it's different. They keep to rocky ground and sometimes they wrap their pistols into plastic bags which they hold above them as they wade into a river and float downstream for dozens of miles. There's almost no trace. The stakes are a little lower, the footsteps softer. Still, sometimes in the night a hand reaches out and tries to weave the darkness through past lives in flooded cities, the sigils of the road, the rows of empty chairs, the secret passages and through all the threads a voice is shouting "listen! I know the words now!"
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