You’re pretty much dead when they find you.

You&& (working title) is a queer novella about when home is other people, including the monsters lurking in the woods. Check out the about page here. You&& is a sequel to Sometimes The Mountain Buries You.

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You’re pretty much dead when they find you. Pretty much dead is survivable, in your experience. You've had worse and still woken up no small stretch of time later, your wounds just barely knit back together. It feels horrendous, rousing from baking in the sun like a desiccated rat swarmed with flies and laid out on that service road you do try avoiding.

This feels different. Easier. All the various gashes are held together without the itch of misaligned spines, mending at speed without having to close themselves in the process. Not nearly so much energy spent. Not nearly so much time lying open like a desiccated rat swarmed with flies and laid out on that service road.

You feel that you are not laid out on that service road.

When you wake up, flooded with unfamiliar sensations and thoughts not your own, something changes. You feel it; the thoughts hear it—a squelch as your vocal cords rapidly shift to accommodate the new language in your head.

It's disconcerting. The first sound you make is a bugle, checking that you can still, regardless of the change.

You're quick. Pain, mostly; heart-weary and heart-ache. "Hey."

You haven't opened your eyes yet, still adjusting to the unfamiliar sensations before adding anew. Whoever spoke is patient. It's comforting.

The ceiling of this place is water-stained, it's the first thing you see. Your eyes trace the erratic bulbous outline, judging age and damage to a material you've never seen before. Closing your eyes again, you brace yourself against the relentless onslaught of new sensations and information of whatever this place you've found yourself in.

"Give, give me, five."

Whoever spoke works through hearing words, interpreting them, interpreting their meaning, and then thinks, Ah maybe—

"Yeah, some radius, please."

Whoever spoke nods—not that you've opened your eyes, they nod because they decide to nod, send a signal to their muscles to contract, think through the action, and you feel it—and leaves whatever space you are lying in. You hear wood scrape on wood, metal click. Door.

This is easier but it's still gashes fresh and tender in delicate new tissue. Moving what little you do to sweep your eyes around whatever space you are lying in sends a shudder of pleasure up the interlocking vertebrae of your spine. The shudder antagonizes the gashes fresh and tender, looping the pain-pleasure response.

Sprawled on Floor, you glunk as you enforce stillness. Whoever spoke, sitting outside of whatever space you're lying in, remembers all the elk they've seen that made an impression on them. The imagery helps you feel at ease in this strange place that is not outside, Inside.

There are things you recognize. Much of the space is constructed from wood. A thick dark brown carpet resembles grizzly bear pelt. There's a nearby water source, Well water, water pump, water softener, filter.

You wince and groan, not warble or bugle, at the rush of language up slotting into concepts as they form in your mind. The groan is entirely human—disconcerting and troublesome. The rush of language feels akin the burst of nerves radiating across your face from a horsefly making a meal of the tip of your nose.

In five minutes—a concept you understand now and can count with impeccable precision—whoever spoke taps on the door.

Having progressed as far as sitting upright in your efforts to take in the unfamiliar sensations while recovering the usual senses, you slump forward to appear relaxed—less like something dangerous from the woods. "Yeah, sure, okay."

Whoever spoke slips inside and closes the door behind them with the the press of their back. Their lips are pressed together into a flat line. Their emotional state is too complex for you to pick out any one thing. "So, how much do you know?" Their voice is casual, with a little playful melody to assure you that this is fine—this is even normal, for them.

You are currently knowing many new things all at once. There's a new splitting pain in your head to accompany gashes fresh and tender. "Name?"

Basin hesitates, confused. Who's—

"Basin."

Basin nods.

You feel the nod, not see it, because your eyes are closed again. There are too many new things with Basin's return for you to keep your eyes open.

"You?"

You feel them press their lips together again when you shake your head. Concern forefronts their complex emotional state. You try to not know what's in their head but the effort makes the splitting pain in your own worse. I guess a name can come later.

Because it's easier on your fresh and tender vocal cords to repeat a sound you've already made, you say "Yeah, sure, okay" with the same cadence and pitch as you already had, like an animal call.

"Would you like me to tell you how you came to be on my kitchen floor?"

You learn what a kettle is, which mug is Basin's favourite, and where the tea is. Basin watches you wince and wonders if they ought to calm their mind. "Yeah, sure, please," you call.

They hesitate. "The thoughts thing or the tea?"

"Both."

Basin manoeuvres around you with an ease about your presence that you gather isn't just from stitching you up. They're familiar with a presence like yours. They smell like freshly chopped wood, woven and knit cotton and wool, and human.

This is as close as you've gotten to a human.

Basin is doing their best to calm their mind, wrestling their need to ask what tea you'll drink. There's a strange familiarity to their thoughts; trying to remember something, sorting through those memories. "So," they pull mugs, neither their favourite, "you were in a ditch up the service road. My neighbours were out checking tracks and brought you to me."

You already know how you came to be on Basin's kitchen floor before Basin speaks because they're so clearly thinking their words before saying them. You don't stop them though. It's easier to take in Basin intentionally thinking through speech than the flurry of their thoughts otherwise.

"I'm a vet in the next town over." Basin nods over their shoulder towards the next town over, kettle on the stove now as they lean against countertop—Vinyl. "What tea would you like?"

You don't know what all the possible teas are. You know some of the ones from Basin's memories, trying to remember something, trying to remember that teas someone else drank. "Chamomile, is a tea, right?"

Basin nods, you have an easier time not feeling them nod this third time around. A part of you relaxes, a part of Basin relaxes noticing you—their patient—relax. "How long have you been around?"

"This is, second fall, after first summer."

Oh... You're the new one. Pain; heart-weary and heart-ache.

"What's that, new one, about?"

Closing their eyes—unearned ease that is starting to make you nervous—Basin breathes long and slow.

In turn, you breathe long and slow. It helps.

Turning away, Basin pulls a jar of chamomile from the cupboard they've been leaning against. When they open the lid, you are overwhelmed by a field in brilliant daylight still cool with overnight rain. Grasses to the knee bow from their collected rainfall, interspersed with the bright yellow and pure white of wild chamomile, the vivid pink and purple of red clover. Walking through the field, the wet blades of grass leave red lines that itch on bare ankles.

It's a memory that pulls on a complex blend of emotions, but the sensations of walking through wet grass, of yellow and white, pink and purple so bright, pure, and vivid to the eyes are comforting.

You hope you like the taste of chamomile. You wish to linger in this memory of Basin's.

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