He wakes up and knows he is in a place that is Wrong. The place is Still, the place is Silent, the place is anything but home-- and instead of dread, something like relief unfurls between his ribs, taking hold. He does not know where he is but it's not There, he does not know where he is but it's preferable to the reality he's always known.

In slow motion, Leslie sits up with eyes as wide as saucers, putting together the details one by one by one. The room is a mess, and dimly lit, the mattress nothing but a twin thing on the tiled floor. He squints, running his fingers over the dusty surface. Light just barely filtered in from beneath the door, the lonely lightbulb flickering once in warning.

It hardly counts as a room at all, despite the bed and ragtag pile of pillows. It's a closet, complete with broom and mop and cleaning agents, with shelves, with dust.

Standing, Leslie pushes open the door with cautious hands, shaking. Notably--strangely, even-- they hold no bruises, no bloodied wounds, no...anything. Just callouses, just slightly crooked fingers from the time he'd broken his left hand.

Leslie stares at what looks like a wrecked, aged convenience store. It's in either disrepair or repair and he can't quite tell. It was definitely being done by someone who had no real idea what he was doing, and no attention span. Half started projects littered the place; barring up the windows, patching up walls where it looks like a creature had burrowed through it, the refrigerator area running but not quite cool enough.

In his pocket something vibrates, and for a second he is baffled. He's never owned a phone in his whole life, but there's one in there, with his name and face on it. He's standing next to a redhead whose smile is brighter than the sun, who he's never seen before.

Slowly sliding down the wall, tugging at his curls with nervous fear, unsure what to think. He breathes, and breathes, and breathes, and is so cold. Leslie shivers, retreating into his over-sized hoodie-- larger than usual, even, although that's not a complaint-- as he ponders the consequences.

The climate is much warmer than it should be for a Michigan February, a shiver sliding up his spine.

Apologies. It is not my intent, a soft-spoken and polite voice murmurs into his mind-- not his ear, his mind, his mind, it's in his head, it's-- Leslie shouts loud enough to wake the dead, and all trepidation for the outside world fades into nothing as panic takes hold.

He returns to where it is safe. He locks himself in the room and in the room he stays, lonely light swaying above.