I open my eyes to pure darkness. There is nothing here. Okay. This is good. Well, it’s better. But not by much. I just need to remember that this is all one big nightmare, and I have to get out or get help. Panicking, I wade through the black, hoping to find something. Someone. Anyone.

There, in the distance. A faint pink light. Taking careful steps at first, in time picking up the pace and running toward it. A giant cherry blossom tree in a tiny courtyard. I throw myself against the trunk. It’s real; solid wood. This fact comforts me. I sob against the bark, heart still pumping, grateful to be touching something that cannot hurt me.

“Konbanwa,” says a voice above my head. I scramble to my feet. A man stands before me, holding a short candle in his hand. It must be a tea light, because I can hardly see any candle underneath the flame. “Jibun Jishin e youkoso,” he welcomes me with a deep bow and a wide smile. He seems awfully happy to see me. I don’t care why. Someone is here. Thank God.

“Please,” I pant. “Onegai … tasukete … um …” It’s a struggle to breathe and speak Japanese at the same time. The panic is too much. “Hashitte … running. I’m running … nigete imasu … Chasing — no, I’m being chased. Attacked. I need help. Keisatsu. Can I call the police, please?”

“Attacked? Oh my. That’s awful. Please —” the man gestures to a sliding door. It draws open. He walks into the main space of a restaurant. I follow him, nodding my thanks. The restaurant is empty, but the stage is lit up. The man pulls out a chair at the nearest table. “Have a seat. Would you like some … water?”

I practically jump at the word. I hadn’t noticed the lumpy, choking feeling in my throat until now. Water would help. I can taste it already. “Thank you.” I manage to sit down. The man leaves and brings a glass full of clear, sparkling liquid. His smile widens with each of my greedy gulps. All I can see is his smile … the rest of his face is all … fuzzy …

“Tell me: What is it you are afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid … I’m being chased. I was attacked.”

“Attacked? Oh, my. That’s … awful.” He strokes his chin in deep thought as he repeats himself. “What can we do?”

“Can you call the police? Please?”

“Police.” He makes a face, as though the word leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “Ugh. No police. You go to police when you’re lost. Are you lost?”

“Lost?” What the hell is he talking about? Has he not heard a word I’ve said? “No! I’m —”

“Lost. Yes. You lost. I mean, you lose. I mean —” He smiles, enjoying a secret joke. “I mean — you lost someone. Yes?”