On our return to Third Mile Wood Roy took the yellow path. At first I managed to keep up with him, but soon I fell behind. I was hindered by a sense that the forest was on the brink of turning into a cartoon of itself. Already the trees looked flatter than they ought to be, more like a painting that could render us just as motionless. If they came to life I was afraid it might be a wrong kind. Perhaps they would start to dance where they stood, unless they scurried on their knuckly roots to clasp one another’s branches before forming rings everywhere around us in a ritual dance. The holes fallen branches had left in the tree trunks looked about to gape if not to burst into song, to surround me with the lyric I’d heard last time we were here. Might my aunt have had visions like this during the psilocybin trial? Could I have inherited the effects somehow? Constantly glancing about for reassurance that the forest hadn’t changed slowed me down, and now Roy was out of sight. I was afraid I’d lost the path until I saw a yellow marker post ahead. I was making for it when the post turned green, as if moss had swarmed up from the undergrowth to add the colour of the woods. Now I saw that the whole of the forest – foliage, tree trunks, grass and other vegetation – was a single shade of lurid green, the expression of a solitary underlying presence. This frightened me more than I understood, and I tried to shout to Roy, but I wasn’t even sure what came out of my mouth. All the same, it brought a response – a distant voice. “Call me,” it said, and I was reminded of yesterday’s faraway song. Was there more to its demand? “Call me, lad” or “Call me mad” or “Call me sad”? The strain of trying to decipher it made my clenched jaws throb, and belatedly grasping it jerked me awake. “Coffee, dad,” Roy had said at least once.

“Wealth, ankhs.” Trying to take hold of my words while opening my eyes proved to be one task too many. “What tie miss it?” I mumbled.

“Getting on for eight.”

Having managed to focus on my phone, I would have said it was closer to seven. “I’ll leave it here, shall I?” Roy said.

He awaited a mumble before planting the mug on the bedside table. His question plainly contained the hope that I wouldn’t linger in bed. “Have you been up long?” I felt prompted if not urged to ask.

“Maybe a couple of hours.”

“I’m impressed. What did you find to do?”

“I’ve been reading about your aunt. I want to ask you about her.”

This felt unnecessarily reminiscent of my dream about a vision she might have had. “Let me have a shower first,” I said.