The bus rocked back and forth as Paul settled into his seat. He leaned against the window. It was an average Monday on his commute to CSU. Cars flew by, countless in number.

  Just as he began to relax, there was a scream from the front of the bus. Jerking forward violently. He rose from his seat with the force of the bus tipping and thrown against the window he had just leaned against. It shattered and he found himself halfway out of the window when the force changed direction. It slammed him against the frame, jagged glass tearing soft flesh and cloth alike.

  His momentum changed once more and then everything went black.

  ***

  The sky was blue, no clouds, just pure azure stretching out before him. Paul's chest ached with each breath. He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain kept him still. Even looking around hurt.

  After what felt like hours, there was the sound of people talking. He wasn't sure what was said, but he was thankful that help was finally here.

  Something sticky and moist was slowly slipping down his right cheek, and there was the smell of burning, like someone was roasting raw meat over a naked flame. The pain had subsided enough that he could turn his head to the right.

  It was a mistake to move.

  Someone else was sprawled out next to him, and upon turning his head he locked eyes with the glassy, lifeless eyes of a young woman he vaguely recognized from the bus, her lower jaw permanently stretched open. His world briefly narrowed as he realized her open skull was the source of the sticky matter on his cheek, her detached leg tossed carelessly against his own thigh, a sickly taste rising in his mouth as he struggled to breathe.

  Bile, that was the taste in his mouth.

  The voices grew closer and the world faded back into darkness.

  ***

  When Paul awoke again, he was in an unfamiliar room, in a bed that was not his. The clothes were foreign and uncomfortable under thick linen sheets, scratching at his skin with each bare shift. Struggling, he sat up and tried to take in his surroundings.

  The room he was in was small but cozy; there were wooden beams along the ceiling and blankets draped around them giving the place a rustic feeling. The furniture seemed like something out of an antique shop. The bed and a few chairs were what looked like carved wood, shoddy and hand made.

  The wooden doors creaked as they opened and they revealed a frail-looking man. The top of his head was barren, all the man's hair seemed to have been snatched up by his chin. This made the ears obvious from the start. Paul wouldn't normally start by looking at someone's ears, but in this particular case, it would be hard not to. They stuck out almost horizontally, with long sharp tips that curved back towards his domed head without a lobe dangling from the base.

  The stranger spoke, his words lilting and familiar enough that for a moment, Paul was sure he’d simply missed it.

  He spoke again, patiently repeating the phrase, enunciating clearly enough that Paul knew he hadn’t misheard him.

  That wasn’t English.

  What the hell?

  He could understand one word, maybe. Or at least it sounded familiar. The stranger shuffled forwards wearing shabby dark robes, like a friar.In his cupped hands, he carried a wooden bowl filled with steaming soup. A wooden spoon, crudely fashioned but usable, was precariously balanced over the top of the ensemble. His shuffling steps had his unibrow furrowing in intense concentration, somehow not detracting from his friendly, affable aura when it was clear his concentration was aimed at not spilling a single drop.

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  Reaching Paul’s bed, he set the bowl down as if it were a holy relic, his furrowed brow replaced with a warm smile, like a proud father as he pulled his hands away from the now secured bowl and spoon he had set on the bedside table.

  Seemingly assured that they were safe and available to Paul, he gestured to the meal and spoke again. Paul could almost catch a few words here and there, but with the pronunciation, he wasn’t entirely certain if it was wishful thinking on his part. “Must, “hunger”, and “friend” were the few he caught before the friar’s expression fell, grief weighing even his shoulders down.

  "Must stician hungerlic. bēorsele unholda ungemete, sarig ee êower fr?end..." The friar looked grieved as he spoke.

  Those were definitely some familiar words.

  "Friend?" Paul's voice was barely a whisper. "What happened?"

  The friar looked confused, then left quickly.

  Paull found this odd, remarkably so. He was unsure what to do next. He noted that both the spoon and the bowl were made of wood. He picked up the bowl and smelled it. It had barely any scent. He looked once more to the door, then picked up the spoon.

  Paul started on the bowl of food, he felt as if he was starving. It was cold, not very seasoned but not bland. .

  He took a moment to inspect the clothes he was wearing. They were definitely not his own. Made of rough material, they were scratchy and not comfortable in the slightest.

  Paul heard footsteps and whispers approach from outside the room. The door opened once more, and the old man had returned, this time with a friend. He looked at Paul then turned to the new person and spoke in the odd, almost familiar tongue.

  Paul pulled aside the covers and swung his legs out. A sharp stabbing sensation shot up his side. He slowly began to stand up, so as to ease the pain and perhaps it would not return. He was wrong. All the while that he attempted to stand it pulsated and throbbed, but he remained on his feet.

  "Look, I'm not sure what's going on here, but I need to leave. I'm sure my family is worried about me so..."

  They had begun to whisper to each other, apparently unbothered by what Paul had said.

  "Uh, sirs?"

  They paid no mind to Paul and continued to converse excitedly. The shorter one was moving his hands about making small gestures. The taller stared hard at Paul, never looking away even to answer the short friar.

  "C'mon guys, I can't miss any more classes. I don't know if this is like an Amish thing or if you're some kind of weird Mennonites, but I have to get out of here."

  Paul started for the door, his side throbbed harder but he bit down and pushed through it. The two men stopped conversing to move out of the way. The two quickly followed him. The shorter one seemed to be shouting at Paul but he wasn't of a mind to care. He wanted to go home. Now.

  The corridor outside the room was cobblestone. It seemed like there was a window every five feet or so looking out into fields and a village just beyond. .

  This wasn’t Colorado. The trees were too big, for one. Far too big.They were towering high into the air, far higher than any tree Paul had seen in his life.

  "Where the hell am I?" He whispered under his breath.

  Still reeling from the sudden understanding that he was no longer in Colorado,he tried to rationalize his surroundings. California had redwoods. Those were huge, so maybe…. No. That was way too far.

  After a while, his rationalization attempts became an exercise in futility.

  Paul turned to the two who followed and tried to communicate again.

  “Where am I?” He asked.

  The duo stopped their whispered conversation. One of them approached him and spoke once more.

  Once more it was unintelligible.

  Paul sighed. “Of course. Why would this be easy…”

  Paul looked hard at the trees. Definitely not redwoods. Not that he was any expert, these simply didn't look like what he had seen in pictures. These trees were like oversized Christmas trees, evergreens he thought. It was the shorter of the strange men. Once he had Paul’s attention he pointed at one of the trees and spoke. “Treow.”

  It took a second, and the strange little man repeated himself before Paul understood what was happening. A smile began to creep across his face as he pointed and spoke. “Tree.”