Dog

Previously

…I stood up. My knees forgave me eventually. I walked to the crack and pressed my eye to it, the way I used to press my eye to the gap in my bedroom door when I wanted to see what was happening without being seen. On the other side: a corridor. Longer than any I've encountered. Wider. The walls were covered in something — writing, maybe, or maps, or the kind of notation my mother would have collected and tried to decode. Roots, the metaphor suggests. Understanding the roots of anxiety. Finding where it starts so you can follow it backward instead of forward. Level Four. Unraveling the threads. I stepped through the crack. It closed behind me. They always do.