There is a small, cliff-side village nestled between the borough of Wenonah Valley and Cedar Ridge. To the outside eye, it is as seemingly ordinary as any seaside town can be with a picturesque courtyard and crowded center. As the first strands of sunlight dance on the horizon, Kemper Square springs to life.

The groomed cobblestone streets are littered with people harboring goods for the day. The clinking sounds of metal on metal echo from the blacksmith's shop and a sugary scented smoke swirls from the Confectionary's chimney.

The air is clean, crisp and sweet. Down at the wharf, the first supply shipment arrives and the municipal civils, dressed in gray-blue jumpsuits, load the tin carts and send them up to town. The giant wheel structure in the town square wakes with the morning, churning a small pond of water in its basin.

In front of the basin stands a cluster of strapping men, weighed down by tattered leather bombers. Kemper's Garners always greet the dawn at the Wheel, waiting. A young man not a day older than 25 wipes his brow under the rising sun.

"This happens every morning. Every single morning he's late!" An older man says, eyes narrowing on a figure racing down the dirt lane.

"Why don't you just make him come with you?"

"Tried. It's no use. Come on, William! We can't keep waiting for you," calls the twenty-something man to the approaching boy.

"Sorry, Nic." The boy named William grins. "Won't happen again."

"I've heard that before."

William is noticeably the youngest of the group, but dressed in the same charming fashion.

He digs his hand into his rucksack and it emerges holding tiny bits of parchment. The paper is small and rectangular with a hand-drawn grid, marked and notated.

"An' what kept you?" The oldest Garner's voice is stern, authoritative.

"Sorry, Brynne. I completed mapping the new grid last night," William begins. "Judging from most recent patterns, I predict Sectors B and D will be the most proactive. We should concentrate our efforts there and expand outward on the second round as we double back."

"That's what you were doing all this time?" Nic lifts his eyebrow, skeptical.

"Very well. We will start in Quadrant I." Garner Brynne points to a scribbled line on the edge of the map. "We will work our way to Quadrant II. Nic, Pace an' Fynn will take this path in sector A. It wraps aroun' the Pit, so it's more direct. The rest of us will move east through the forest, and we'll rendezvous in Sector B."

"Just B and D then, are you positive?" Another man addresses William.

"Positive, Reese."

"Then it will be an easy one. We should be back by mid-day." Nic claps William on the back. Brynne folds the tiny piece of paper and stuffs it into his bomber.

The oldest man checks the watch dangling from his waistband and looks up at the sky. "It's time," he says. "Let's move out."

At the edge of town, diagonal from the Wheel, a grand stable house rests in a clearing. One by one the Garners mount and ride, branching off into two smaller groups like there's an invisible fork in the road.

One group heads east, following the path that winds around the gleaming Cheshire Cliffs. The other takes a narrow path that leads straight into the heart of the forest.

/ / /

My face is touching something spongy and damp, the supple surface soft beneath my skin. My eyes flutter open and are seared by blinding sunlight.

My vision is obscured –one indecipherable blur of green. The moss separates my cheek from the cool slate hidden beneath it. It feels like fluffy cotton.

The smell of damp earth and fresh water pervades the air around me. The rock is my only physical contact –the rock and its moss.

My neck is stiff and twisted at an unnatural angle. I try to breathe, but where the air should go a pain fills my chest instead. Suddenly it's impossible to catch my breath. I focus on breathing. I count my breaths as the mossy spirals tickle my nose.

I roll over and brace my palms. Where am I?

The same emerald moss is growing on me, over me, etching me into the landscape.

How long have I been lying here? I hear the faint sound of rushing water. I can almost feel a mist, or maybe I'm hopeful. It must be close to 100 degrees and it is humid.

My eyes seem stuck on green. I blink furiously, trying my best to shut out an oncoming headache. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a new color: deep red, tarnished and subdued by the colors of nature, but unmistakably red. It needs no introduction.

Blood.

The nauseating smell of iron sickens my stomach. My hand rushes to my neck and my fingers fumble over a gaping wound, but I can't feel any pain. There should be pain, I know. But instead there's nothing. My jeans are torn along a gash in my left leg and I'm missing a boot.

Another minute passes before my neck permits leeway in movement. I look around, slowly, cautiously taking in my surroundings (and still counting my breaths).

I'm in a hollow, surrounded by trees on every side but not just ordinary trees –trees the size of skyscrapers. Boulders and rocks litter the dark forest floor –one giant stone pit. I hear water again.

I climb to my feet and stare at the landscape before me. It is glorious, teeming with deep vibrant colors: chocolate brown, ocean blue, and green too rich to be real. I move my foot first, and my entire body –every muscle –every fiber screams in protest. I can feel the atrophy beneath my skin.

Crunch.

My right foot comes down on something hard. I reach down and pull up what appears to be the tip of an old Native American arrowhead –the kind you see in old museums –only it's brand new. Rope wrapping the tribal-printed stone head is still intact.

Strange, but stranger things have happened.

Crunch.

I look up in front of me half expecting an Indian, but instead I see a single branch dangling from a tall tree dead ahead, its trunk wider than a school bus is long.

It is quiet. There's no sign of people –no sign of any life, apart from the field frogs croaking in the distance.

Something hisses above. Water splashes onto the forest floor, fast and heavy like buckets emptying from the skies. The raindrops echo, but two minutes later the rain stops, gone as quickly as it came.

It cooled things down temporarily, but the air is still sticky and I have more pressing matters than the stifling heat. I canvas the forest ground. Each step becomes easier as my muscles regain their memory.

There are no paths or signs and certainly no roads. Launching in the direction of my bloody footprints, I head for a compact wall of rocks. Steadying my legs, I follow the sound of the stream, hoping it will bring me something –civilization maybe, but I can't afford to be picky. I would settle for whoever made the arrowhead. My palm falls on the cool surface. It seems the only way out is up.

I climb as gingerly as I can, given my overall stiffness and expiring stamina. I pause between steps because the rocks are slippery. If I can just get to the top and over, then maybe...

My remaining boot tumbles. I am thrust backwards. My entire body aches; I now finally feel the full cruelty of the gash in my neck. My head smacks onto the ground. The throbbing in my head disintegrates as I slip away...

I don't move. I lie on my stomach and count my breaths again. The footsteps are getting closer. I hear chains I think, the sound of metal on metal. The ground quivers.

I struggle to open my eyes. I hear a muffled sound in the distance –a voice, maybe.

"We got another one up ahead, a girl it looks like, and wounded too," a man says.

Another one what?

"Your accuracy is impeccable, William." Another man almost laughs. "This is the heart of Sector B."

Someone bridges the gap between us and knees drop to my side. The smells of worn leather and firewood linger in the air. Collected breaths, rapid but easy, echo in my ear.

Too close.

My body is sore and immobile, and my eyes still unwilling to open. A hand grips my shoulder.

His palm is rough and callous, but his hands are surprisingly gentle. They smooth my hair from my face. Hands move around my collarbone and cup the leaking hole in my neck.

"She's alive." The voice remains composed, unaffected by what's happening before his very eyes, which in this case is me dying.

"No. Don't touch her," a voice orders from the distance, assuming command.

I hear more horses now and more voices among the group –five at least but probably more. Kneeling next to me, the man –or boy –turns my body toward his. Something soft is under my head now. I think it's a pillow.

"She's not conscious," says the boy.

Yes I am, I silently protest.

"I think she ought to be fine as long as we clean her up. Should get her up to camp as soon as possible. She's still warm."

Of course I am. It's 100 degrees! He brushes my hair again.

"That woun' doesn't look nice to me."

The second man's voice rents the silence, not as welcoming as the younger man's angelic one. He is older, his voice firmer. Their leader, maybe, whoever they are.

"Won'er what happened to her?" The husky voice is closer still.

Oh no. My neck must be worse than the pain is letting on. Why can't I feel it? What's happened to me?

"They're getting worse and worse out here. It's no wonder not many are making it," another one groans.

"Load her up. We'll take her back with the other two. William, you sit with her. See if she regains consciousness."

"Yes, Brynne." The boy holding my head obeys.

They think I am unconscious. Surely they won't think I'm dead will they? They did check my pulse and they are taking me somewhere –with the other two.

Arms scoop beneath me and effortlessly lift me from the ground. We move to the left and up a few meters, drawing closer to the harsh sound of clanking metal.

Suddenly I want to scream, but I can't. The most I can manage is an inaudible moan.

"Hear that?" William's voice is close to my ear.

I still cannot will my eyes to open. I want to see. I want to open my mouth and talk. I need to know where I am going.

The men whisper among themselves and I only catch a few esoteric words –darkbox, dead, and stretcher. What ominous words are these?

"Place her in this one here an' place the others in the darkbox. Prepare that one; it's going straight to the fire. Clean out what is left from yesterday an' take it to the ash house," the leader orders. Brynne, I think they called him.

William props me up, resting my head against his chest. I inhale deeply... smells of firewood and leather. I'm placed onto a stiff mat with something soft and malleable under my head.

"Someone ride ahead and call for the Refinery to notify the committee." A new man instructs.

William climbs in behind me and settles on my left side. A metal bar is latched across the door. I'm still too feeble to move.

William shuffles something in his hand and I hear water slosh inside a container. My mouth is suddenly as dry as bone, my lips parched and cracked like wrinkled paper.

What happened to me? I remember being outside somewhere, I think.

Nothing makes sense. I have no memories of before my eyes opened on the mossy rock. I haven't seen anything other than the pit I was in... the pit and the forest.

I could be dreaming. But then, the gash in my neck wouldn't feel this real. I can't remember the last time I experienced pain of this caliber. These people, surely they will know where I am. Where I am from. Yes, I will ask them. Still, with this new resolve came the unsettling feeling in my stomach that I knew I was not where I was meant to be.

My eyes are watering. I'm crying.

Weights have replaced my eyelids, the burden of a thousand pounds weighing down on my icy blues. Blue. How strange, I have the unproven suspicion that my eyes are blue.

The sponge finds my mouth; it's heavy and solid with the promise of water. My lips part and water trickles inside. Water never felt so alleviating. Or tasted so good.

I regain sensation in my arms and legs. I'm reminded of the lump on the back of my head from my near-fatal rock climb.

My neck is split and my body contorted. Writhing in pain, I scream as loud as I can.

"Shh, stop moving," William coaxes. His grip softens. "How can you expect it to fully heal if you continue to disrupt it?"

His velvety smooth voice lures me back into a welcome silence.

My eyelids are not as heavy now. The water must have helped. I'm feeling confident and perhaps a bit too overzealous. My eyes flutter once, twice, and then they open.

Beauty.

The first thing I see is beauty, pure and uninhibited, the kind you see only in museums, in oil paintings, one exhibit down from the Native American artifacts.

William's eyes are dark, deep ocean blue. His skin is tan and smooth, like suntanned marble, with defined features and full lips maimed by superficial scarring. A mess of wavy brown hair spills onto his forehead.

"Welcome back," he whispers.

His lips move as fluidly as his voice sounds, which is indescribable, simply because no words could do it justice.

A smile parts his lips. I detect a smidgen of comfort and relief in his eyes. He seems to know me. Do I know him? I don't think I do. Surely, I'd remember such an extraordinary face.

"I am William," he says softly, confirming his identity.

I stare back in silence, still unable to speak.

His brow furrows in concern and finally I manage to smile back, although it feels like more of a grimace. I open my mouth.

"No. Don't try to speak. Just shake your head if you can tell me your name," William instructs.

No.

It's my own name and I don't know it. I shake my head, careful not to stir the pain in my neck from its somewhat manageable slumber. Tears settle in the corners of my eyes, building up until they become a piercing hot veil.

"It's okay. Don't cry. It will come back to you with time," he soothes. "It always does with time."

I want to ask him so many things but still I cannot find my voice. I want to ask where we are going and where I am, how I got here and how I get back. I want to ask him what a darkbox is and who the other two are...

My body shifts as whatever we are in climbs uphill. I'm suddenly thankful someone latched the door at my feet.

Where are we going?

I quiet my mind, pushing everything out... out...

The wagon slows to a stop.