"What the fuck did that old man put in that weed?"
He forced himself upright into a sitting position, his movements quick and unsteady, and scanned his surroundings.
Nothing but forest.
Trees in every direction. No paths. No landmarks.
Just woods.
His pulse quickened. The note—something the old man must have slipped into his pocket. His bowl. And the bag of seeds.
That was all he had.
He pushed himself to his feet as quickly as he could, but his body felt wrong—dizzy, nauseous, unsteady. Still, he managed to stand.
With trembling hands, he opened the small leather bag.
Five seeds.
Small. Tan-brown. Ordinary-looking.
He stared at them for a moment, then shoved the bag, along with the note and his pipe, back into his pocket. There was no point in thinking about them now.
He needed to figure out where he was.
There was a state park not far from his apartment. Maybe—somehow—he had been dumped there.It was the only explanation that made any sense.
So he chose a direction and started walking.
At first, the movement helped. It gave him something to focus on.
But the forest didn't change.
The same trees. The same undergrowth. Over and over.
His feet began to ache, though he realized—strangely—that he was still wearing his shoes. He hadn't gone to bed in them. The thought lingered for a moment, unsettling, before he pushed it aside.
He kept walking.
Minutes blurred into something longer.
Then longer still.
Hours, maybe.
Along the way, he saw animals he recognized—squirrels, chipmunks—small, familiar signs of normalcy.
And others that were anything but.
At one point, something skittered across his path—a lizard, roughly the size of a salamander. It stopped. Turned.
And coughed out a brief flicker of flame. Allen didn't hesitate. He ran.
He didn't stop until his lungs burned and his legs threatened to give out.
"Yeah," he muttered to himself, breathless. "I'm losing it. I have to be."
Lizards didn't breathe fire.
They just didn't.
This had to be the drug. Whatever that man had given him—it wasn't just weed. Maybe acid. He'd never tried it before. Just weed. Shrooms, once or twice.
This had to be that.
It had to be.
The forest stretched on without end.
The repetition became suffocating. Disorienting.
Allen felt his thoughts beginning to slip, dulling at the edges. He stopped trying to make sense of it. Stopped questioning.
He just walked.
One step after another.
If this wasn't real, it would end eventually.
If it was—
He didn't finish the thought.
By the time the light began to fade, his body was failing.
Then he smelled it.
Smoke.
Not the damp, organic scent of the forest—but something sharper. Familiar.
Woodsmoke.
Fire meant people.
People meant help.
He turned toward it immediately, pushing himself forward with what little strength he had left.
Each step grew harder than the last. His stomach twisted—he hadn't eaten since the night before. His vision dimmed at the edges.
Still, he kept moving.
The trees began to thin.
Then, suddenly, the forest broke.
He stumbled into a wide clearing.
Closer to him, rows of crops stretched across the land—wheat, corn, and other plants he didn't immediately recognize. Beyond them stood a modest wooden cabin, rough-built and weathered.
Smoke curled steadily from a simple chimney.
Relief surged through him.
He tried to call out, but his voice failed.
So he kept moving.
As he passed the edge of the crops, something caught his eye.
A single row, set slightly apart.
Five plants.
Cannabis.
Small. Weak. Poorly grown—almost pitiful.
Even in his condition, he recognized it instantly.
But he didn't have the strength to think about it.
Not now.
The cabin loomed closer.
Each step felt heavier than the last. His vision narrowed, darkness creeping inward.
He reached the wooden steps.
His legs gave out.
He hit his knees hard, pain barely registering through the exhaustion.
"No…" he whispered.
He couldn't stop now.
Not this close.
Dragging himself forward, he clawed his way up the steps and toward the door. Every movement felt distant, disconnected, as if his body no longer belonged to him.
He raised a shaking hand.
Knocked once.
Hard.
Then everything went black.
No dreams.
No light.
Just nothing.