I'm standing in the verandah of an old grey two-storey farmhouse, looking down a single-lane unpaved road that leads right up to the front steps. It's dark and in the distance, the road fades into night and fog. Dense trees and brush wall each side of the road. With my hands on the railing, I stand next to a man that seems like my father but I don't like or trust him. We don't speak. The fog slowly fills the road until most visibility is gone. I see a family of possum crossing through the darkness. As the fog thickens, I fall asleep.

I wake up in the passenger's seat of a truck. The man is driving. I sink a little into the seat because I don't like where we're going. Through the window I watch houses, smaller than ours, pass by. The fog is gone. In disturbing detail, I see the texture of the road, dirt and rock, and the weeds and shrubs growing out from the foundation of a dark clapboard house with a railed porch. The light is on. Through the living room window, I see a book case with four beige volumes in the right-hand corner of its top shelf.

Farther on, we pass a shed with a grey corrugated metal sliding door, across which something has been written in red spray paint. Looking back, I try to read it but can only make out one word, "treho", meaning "run" in Greek.