I have no sense of time. I don't know how many hours or days passed while I was in the white room. It felt like five minutes, but by the time I opened the door again I was no longer in the hospital and it was daytime. I've learned the Fold is fickle. It keeps spitting me out into random places.

I've gone back into the white room three times. Each time I follow the invisible noise, which leads me to a door. I find myself staring at the old green board. Nothing is different. It still bears the same message: Find Your Anchor.

I know this is a test. I know this 'anchor' must be a person or thing –something that can tether me to my earthly life. Exactly how I know this I can't be certain. It just feels like the truth to me.

What kind of game is this?

The room spit me out last onto the street in front of my house. It's daytime and the entire street is engulfed in a misty rain again. Clouds swirl dark above me and I can feel a storm in my bones. My feet find their muscle memory and start retracing my steps to the school. Maybe this will help me with my anchor.

So far nothing else has helped. Not when I was spit back into my own bedroom or when I woke up in my high school gymnasium. I haven't talked to another person in hours or days maybe. It seems impossible my anchor could be a person when no one can see me or hear me or even feel me.

I know it seems I'm still here but maybe I am truly gone.

My feet leave the pavement and find grass. The park comes into view. I must have turned left without even realizing it. Just like everywhere else in the Fold, I notice it looks different than before. Nothing has clear edges. The trees blur into the background colors and the shapes are there, but they don't seem solid. It's like everything could shift if I simply touch it, maybe if I simply think it.

I enter the playground area, my feet still leading for me. The rain has melted most of the snow and the woodchips crunch beneath my boots. I almost think the person on the swings looks up but I know it's just wishful thinking.

They can't hear you, Quinn.

Still, I walk closer. As I come up on the rusted swing set I see the person in the black hoodie.

Hazel.

This has to be it. She has to be it. My anchor. It only makes sense.

The white room dumped me right on the street and my mind took me here subliminally. A rush of hope swells in me like a warm flame. Hazel is the closest human to me. My sister. Maybe we aren't friends, but she was there. She was with me. It must have been Hazel I felt tugging on my arm. Who better to be my anchor?

I kneel down in front of her. My eyes follow Hazel's. I watch as she picks at the fraying sleeve of her flannel. The squeaky metal rings on the swing are the only things I hear. Hazel stares at the ground. Her eyes are still puffy and bloodshot. It makes me wonder again how much time has gone by since what should have been our first day of school.

My face is mere inches from hers. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

"Hazel?" I whisper since I am so close. I may as well be screaming, as she can't hear me anyway.

"Hello? Hazel?" I raise my voice. I wave my hands in front of her face.

Nothing.

I'm not sure what should be happening, but I'm almost certain if she were my anchor she'd be able to hear me. There would be some sign of her hearing me or feeling my presence.

I look around and decide to try the swing next to her. I sit down and fall right through it. The swing doesn't move a hair and Hazel doesn't even flinch.

Shit.

"Hazel, come on!" I almost whine. "Hazel, I'm right here!"

She pulls her phone from her pocket then puts it back. Probably checking the time. I don't want her to leave. I'm not sure when I'll get another chance.

I try whatever I can think of. I kick at the woodchips. Nothing. I even try tugging on her hoodie's strings. Nothing. I try to concentrate hard on all the times we used to come to this park together as kids. After minutes or hours I finally give up and sit on the ground at her feet. The realization is settling in.

Hazel can't see me or hear me or even feel me near her. Hazel can't be my anchor.

I feel helpless and hopeless. Despair washes over me as the rain falls on cue. Hazel looks up, pulls her hoodie closer around her, and walks to the edge of the park.

I watch her go. I watch her tiny black silhouette move farther away from me like it did at the reservoir.

...

I sit at the park for hours. Maybe a day. It hits me that I haven't gotten hungry or thirsty or tired even. I doubt I could sleep here. I doubt I can feel any type of need or want here. Other than the deep-seeded desire to find my anchor.

The rain pours down on me. I let it soak my clothes but I don't feel the wet or the cold. I throw my head back and shout as loud as I can. At least I can hear myself. I bring my head upright again and look at the utility shed on the side of the park. The door is glowing.

Damn. It guides me like a beacon as I cross the playground.

My fingers turn the knob and I'm already anticipating the fluid atmosphere. I look around for the green board but the walls are empty. I do a full 360 and a microphone appears behind me. The stand is tall and silver. The actual microphone is bulky and vintage and belongs in the 1940s. It's emitting a low static that is clicking over what sounds like an old jazz tune.

What the actual–

This is an actual horror film.

I get closer and it gets louder –choppier. I know it's crazy but I swear I recognize the song. It doesn't sound like anything I'd have heard during my life and definitely doesn't sound like it's a song I know, but there's something strangely familiar about it.

Summertime ...'iving ...easy...

White noise cuts across the lyrics, but I'm almost certain I know them.

My fingertips touch the top of the microphone and it shuts off completely.

I can't pull my fingertips away from the cold metal. My feet are rooted to their spot.

The clearest voice sings... So hush little baby, don't you cry.

I place the song immediately. My parents used to sing it to Hazel and me at bedtime. My dad always said his mother sang it to him as a child.

Could this be a clue bestowed upon me by the white room? Is the Fold telling me where to search for my anchor?

My parents.