Session 3: We’re Not in Tokyo Anymore.

“Dad? Dad, what is it?” you ask, moving up beside your Father. You pull a branch aside and blink into the glare. The sunlight hits like a white sheet to the face while your eyes adjust. When the world finally resolves, you stare out over a vast plain of rolling hills stretching for miles, broken only by the occasional lonely tree.

“Wha—oh, yeah. Umm… Son, I’ve just come to a rather stark conclusion,” your Father says, with a gravity in his voice.

“What’s that?”

“Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore,” your Father says.

“Huh?” you ask, confused.

“Oh, come on. The Wizard of Oz? First color movie? A quintessential American classic?” He waits with his hands out, hopeful, only to be met by your blank stare.

“Nothing?” he asks. You shake your head no, much to his disappointment. “Ya know what? I take back what I said earlier; you do need that American culture class. But that’s beside the point,” he says, waving away his disappointment.

“OK, and the point is?” you ask.

“We’re not in Japan anymore,” he says as casually as announcing dinner plans.

“How can you be so confident about that?” You ask, desperate for a non-insane explanation.

“Look at it, son.” Your Father says, sweeping an arm across the horizon. “Rolling hills for miles. Not a mountain in sight. No way this is Japan.”

“Just because there aren’t any mountains?”

“Yeah. Japan is 90% mountains.”

“There aren’t any in Tokyo.”

“Sure, there aren’t, there’s just the world’s largest city,” he says, pulling his arm back. “So I suppose this still could be Japan, and we just time‑traveled to before it was built. That would explain why we have silver coins.”

“Time‑traveled because there aren’t mountains? Sounds like quite the leap,” you say.

“Well, it’s one of those,” he says, nodding at the open plains. “Because I can’t think of anywhere in modern Japan with this much open space without mountains or buildings.”

You rack your brain for a counterexample. Nothing comes. You try to picture any stretch of Japanese countryside like this and come up empty.

“OK, so we’re not in modern Japan,” you say at last, conceding an inch. “How does that change our situation?”

“It doesn’t,” he says so quickly it startles you. “We’ve gone from not knowing where we are or where we’re going to knowing where we aren’t and still not knowing where we’re going. I suppose you could call that an improvement, albeit in the most unhelpful way. But we could spend all day listing places we’re not.” He paces, ticking points on his fingers. “Mars, for example. I’d also bet this isn’t Arizona or Mexico, or—hell—most of South America either. Well, maybe parts of Argentina, western Argentina, along the mountains. Do they have pine trees there? I could’ve sworn I saw at least one. If I did, we could cross out all of Africa too, and most of the Middle East and India, and—” He stops, catching himself. “Well, see, that’s where that thinking leads us.”

“So, what do we do?” you ask.

“Same thing we’ve been doing—keep following the river till we come to something else. It should be easier now that the trees are letting up.” He steps out from the woodline and eyes the abrupt edge. “A little too suddenly, even.”

“Dad, you’re acting crazy again.”

“Didn’t I already tell you the most logical explanation is that I’m wearing a happy jacket in a sponge room, having a wild dream?”

“You said this wasn’t a dream.”

“No, I said, if this was a dream, it didn’t follow conventional dream logic. Occam’s razor still makes me inclined to believe it’s just a strange one…” His attention drifts back to the trees. “Is it just me, or is this treeline a little too straight? Like it was ripped out of a Hollywood set.”

“No, Dad, it looks fine,” you say, stepping out into the sun. Instantly, your body feels like it’s stepped into an oven. The blaring rays of sunlight feel like arrows piercing your bones, but you grit your teeth and stake it out. “Can we just get going? I’m getting really thirsty—and… and…” The light grows increasingly intense. You close your eyes for a moment to gain some relief, only to feel a crushing pressure on your chest.

“Son! Hey, come on, stay with me!” Your Father calls, his voice sounding echoy and distant.

“Ow!” You say, trying to brush off whatever is crushing your chest. You feel a dry hand on your forehead, giving slight relief from the sun.

“Dammit, why didn't you tell me you stopped sweating!”Your Father shouts, dragging you back to the treeline and tearing your clothes off. You try resisting, but your trembling hands are no match for his.

“I thought I was just getting used to the heat,” you try saying, only for it to come out slurred.

“No, that’s a sign of heat stroke, ya dingus.” His words are tense but not panicked. “Could also be the beginnings of infection from that stream water you drank, yes, I noticed you aren’t that slick.”He doesn't stop til all that remains are your draws.

“Ah! You squirm as cool water washes over you, jolting your senses. You open your eyes and see your Father look from you to his now-empty waterskin.

“Ahh, stupid! Stupid!” your Father yells, bashing his hand into his face. “Why didn't I use your skin of stream water for that?” He tosses the skin back on his belt and then rummages through your clothes until he finds your skin. He shakes it, confirming it’s full of water before opening the top. “Alright, we don't have time to boil it, so… guess we just pray and hope for the best.” He takes a second to adjust and straighten his posture, then holds out the water skin and grasps your hand firmly.

“Lord, I’ve no idea why you brought us here or where ‘here’ even is. But I know you watch over us even now. Bless the journey ahead and watch our steps. Bless this water, make it good and fresh like the true living water you offer, so that we may never grow thirsty again. Amen.” He releases your hand and begins placing the mouthpiece to your lips when the sunlight grows even more intense. You fling your arm out and shield your eyes. After a moment, the glow fades.

The water flows past your lips and floods your mouth, dissolving the cotton feeling on your tongue and down your throat. It could just be the onset of heat stroke, but you can't remember water ever tasting that clear or refreshing. Before you know it, you’ve swallowed the whole skin. In a mere moment, you feel the tingling in your limbs and fog in your mind fade, washed away like mud in a shower.

“Better?” your Father asks, once you open your eyes.

“Much,” you say, voice clear and unracked.

“Oh, thank God,” he says, shoulder relaxing with a sigh. “And here I was worried that glowing was a bad sign.”

“Glowing?” you ask, reaching for your clothes in an attempt to wear more than just underwear.

“Yeah,” your Father says, handing you your shirt and pants. “Once I did the prayer, the tip began glowing and the water felt strangely cold.

“Wait, was that what the light was? That wasn't the sun?”

“No, that was the water.”

“And you still gave it to me?” you say, pulling up your pants.

“Well, what else was I supposed to do? Let the heat keep stroking you?”

“Never phrase it like that again,” you say, wagging a finger at your Father’s amused grin. “And you could’ve tested it before giving it to me, what if it made my heat stroke worse?”

“I did taste test it,” he says, shaking the empty skin. “Tasted so good I had to stop myself before I finished it.”

“Okay, but what was that glowing?”

“No idea,” he says as if not knowing was something to be proud of.

“You have no idea?”

“None whatsoever.”

“And you just drank it, then gave it to me?”

“I chopped it up as a blessing from the Lord.”

“And you’re content with that answer?” you ask, putting on the last of your clothes and gear. “Not curious what that was at all?”

“Oh, of course I’m curious,” he says, without pausing. “But what’s standing here staring at a waterskin gonna do about it?”

"OK, OK, but how can you just go along with it without understanding what happened?"

"Son, I haven't understood much of anything since we woke up there. I mean, we're in strange clothes, in a strange forest, with no idea where we are or how to get home," he says, stepping over a fallen log. "There's nothing about this, I understand. But I don't have to understand to know that standing around won't get us anywhere," he says, turning to walk off into the field, still following the river.

"So we're just gonna keep wandering around?" you call, taking off after your Father.

"We aren't wondering, we're following the river," he says, as if that’s all the assurance you need. You walk through the hills and valleys, always following the river. As you walk, the sun slowly creeps its way across the sky, coming to rest among the smooth peaks of the hills.

“By my estimate, we’ve got another hour of sunlight at best,” your Father says, bracketing the sun with his hand. “I say we make camp and call it a day.”

“Make camp, with what tent?”

“None. We’ll be sleeping under the stars.”

“What if it rains?”

“Then we’ll suffer,” he says, dropping his pack under a broad‑limbed tree. “It’s clear now, but if it does rain, we’ll hunker under this big one. Hopefully, better than nothing. Only time will tell.” You sigh, being unable to refute his logic is becoming a heavier burden than the pack on your back. You let it fall to the ground and stretch until your spine crackles.

“You have any bones left?” your Father jokes, chuckling at himself. “While we still have light, let’s check that map again—maybe we’ll see where we are.”

“Sure.” You grab the map case from your belt and hand him the roll. As your fingers release, a gust snatches the parchment and sends it flapping over the hill.

You lock eyes with your Father, horrified.

“CHASE IT!” he yells, lunging. You bolt uphill, easily pulling ahead.

“Must be the armor slowing him,” you reason.

At the crest, the map jitters just above your reach. You spring and swipe, just short. You stumble on landing, catch yourself, and sprint again. The parchment kites right along the ridge, blending into the yellow sky.

“ON YOUR LEFT!” your Father shouts.

You veer right. There—the flapping edge. You surge up the crown of the hill and jump, fingertips grazing it—again, not enough.

“If I just had something to jump off,” you think before spotting it—a cut stump to your left. You plant, push, and launch. Air whooshes past your ears as your hand clamps the page at last.

“Yes!” You cheer, before looking down at the ground, rapidly rushing towards you.

“FU—!” you bark as your boot hits loose soil right beside a steep drop. The edge gives way. You pinwheel and tumble, head over heels, until your back slams a rock, and the air blasts from your lungs as if sucked out by a vacuum.

“Son, you OK?” your Father calls, picking his way down, careful not to repeat your mistake.

You try to answer, but nothing comes to mind. Your back screams, and your chest can’t remember how to breathe. All you can manage is a wave.

“Figuress,” your Father says as he reaches you. “Got the wind knocked out of ya. Hit your head at all?” He asks, sliding a hand behind your head to check for blood, his fingers brisk but precise.

You shake your head. He moves your arms, legs, and ribs, pressing and testing for fracture or hidden pain. By the time he finishes, your lungs sputter back online.

“And you did manage to grab the map?” he asks, satisfied when you hold it up.

“Atta boy,” he says, patting your head. “And I have some great news, too. Take a look at what you found,” he says, gesturing behind you. What you’d taken for a jut of rock is a carefully laid stone foundation. Above it, a simple wooden house: timber frame infilled with planks, a straw roof canted low. The whole thing looks ripped from a movie set, only the bruised ache in your spine proves it’s real.

“What? How? Why?”

“You catch your breath. I’ll go around and see if they can help us. Hopefully, we won’t be sleeping under the stars tonight,” he says, rounding the corner.

You sit back against the wall and drag air into your chest in thin, stubborn threads. You wait to hear knocking. Instead, your Father returns.

“Nobody’s home. We’re gonna sleep here tonight. You stay here, I’ll fetch the bags,” he says, starting back up the hill.

“We can’t just barge into somebody’s house.” You think. “What if they come back and find us?”

“What do you mean, nobody’s home?” you call after him.

“Take a look for yourself,” he says, disappearing over the crest. You groan up to your feet and limp to the corner.

"Would it kill him to explain stuff before going off like that?" You think, rising to your feet. "He'd have a cow if I acted like that. I mean, what makes him so sure this place is abandoned?" Your thoughts fail as soon as you turn the corner of the house, revealing a large hole where the door should have been, hidden from the backside half; the roof is partially caved in, leaving only a small corner of the one-room house covered. The inside is scattered with leaves and ivy craws from every wall. Inside the fireplace rests the remains of a den of some kind. You take a few cautious steps over the stone rubble of the doorway, your eyes adjusting to the shadow cast by the rapidly setting sun.

“It’s not much, but it should keep us fairly dry,” your Father says, returning with both packs. “So long as we don’t get a torrential downpour. I’m more worried about whatever did the door in.” He says, setting the gear down and rummaging through it.

“What do you mean?”

“Look at it. If the wooden structure collapsed, that’s one thing—but the stone base too? That’s no normal weathering.” You lean close and notice what he means. The damage isn’t gentle or gradual; it’s violent.

“So what do you think did it?” you ask.

“My first thought was maybe a tree fell on the wall,” he says, mind already churning. “But outside, I don’t see a stump, and where would the tree have gone? So maybe a bulldozer or something, but this doesn’t look like a modern site. And why only take down the doorway and leave?” He shrugs. “Either way, let’s finish settling in and hope whatever caused that doesn’t come back to finish the job.”

“And if it does return?” You ask, looking to him, and waiting for an answer.

For the first time, he doesn’t answer right away. He removes his helmet; his eyes, without it, look as calm and unreadable as steel.

“Given all this ivy, it’s been a while since anyone’s been here, including whatever made that hole. Hopefully it’s gone like the people that built this cottage.”

You make camp in the intact corner, gather wood, lay out bedrolls, and coax a fire. Your Father puts his plan to filter and boil the water into action, though the result is less than satisfying. It could’ve just been the low light of the fire, but you swear you see tiny bits of dirt in it, along with a generally cloudy disposition. He drinks it without worry, and as the leathery jerks dry your mouth, you relent and sip it while planning the next day.

“So you just want us to keep following the river?” you ask, taking a bite of jerky that tastes more like rubber than food.

“Why not? We know civilization’s somewhere, and most cities are near steady water. If we keep following it, we’re bound to find people eventually,” he says, tugging his own jerky free with a grunt.

“But what if we follow it all the way to the ocean without finding anyone?”

“Then we follow the coast till we do. This isn’t rocket science, son.”

“And if we still don’t find anyone?”

“Then we’ll rely on God for that.”

“Are we sure that’ll work?” you ask. “What if you were right earlier, and we aren’t on Earth anymore?” Your Father lifts an eyebrow, then answers calmly.

“Since he’s the creator of the whole universe, I’m confident he has jurisdiction here. In fact, we might be better off, since the Devil only has authority on Earth.”

“Right… I’m just thinking we should have a backup plan.”

“God is our first and only plan.”

“You don’t want to consider other solutions?”

“Seek ye first God’s kingdom, and all else shall be given unto thee,” he says, head cocked like he’s shaking the verse out of his ear.

“And you aren’t the least bit worried about anything that’s happened today?”

“‘Who, by worrying, can add even a single hour to your life? If you cannot do this simple thing, why worry about the rest?” He says, even more confidently. “We just need to keep our heads screwed on right, and he’ll take care of the rest, just like he did with the water.”

“Are we sure that was God?”

“Not sure what else it would be. You saw it glow right as I finished the prayer.”

“Yeah, but it didn’t glow when you prayed over our rations,” you say, staring at the strip in your hand.

“Well, we didn’t really need a sign that our rations were free of cholera, now did we?” he asks.

You shrug and stare out at the hills. A half‑moon brightens the grass beyond the ruined doorway. You’re surprised how bright it is, bright enough to see the swaying grass blades and a faint luminescence just beyond the rising hill.

“You should sleep first,” your Father says, feeding a big log to the fire. “This one should burn four to six hours. I’ll wake you when it’s gone.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Keep watch. What else?”

“We’re keeping a watch?” you ask, surprised.

“You were so worried about finding people, you never considered they might find us first, did you?” The thought had never occurred to you, but when he says it like that… “Even if we do find people, who says they’ll be friendly? They might try to rob us, or worse. If that’s a possibility, I’d rather see them coming.” He looks out through the collapsed doorway. “Don’t worry about that. Sleep. I want to start early, before the heat sets in. We were fine in the woods yesterday, but tomorrow the sun will be on us.”

Uneasy, you still feel the day’s exhaustion drag you down as you lie on your bedroll. Sleep claims you quickly, until you feel a hand shake your shoulder. You blink up into your Father’s face.

“Sleep well?” he asks, letting go. You yawn mightily.

“Yeah, I agree,” he says, smirking. “Here, let me show you what to look for.” He guides you to a log inside the doorway. “Look outside, away from the fire, or your eyes won’t adjust. I’ve been using the moonlight the best I can, but I can’t see much beyond the hill.”

“What about the light beyond it?” you ask.

“What light?” he asks, surprised.

“Right there,” You say, pointing. “Just beyond the hill, it looks like a few streetlights.” He shades his brow and peers into the dark until he finally gives up.

“Welp, either you’re seeing things that aren’t there, or I’m not seeing what is. Either way, no harm in setting out for that hill tomorrow. If you’re right, we just stumbled on civilization; if you’re wrong, we head back to the river. Sound good?”

“Well, no worse than your other plans so far,” you say.

“You’re lucky I’m tired enough to take that as a compliment,” he says, nudging your arm. “Wake me at dawn,” he says, dropping onto his bedroll. Within minutes, thunderous snores roll from him. You tune him out and watch the grass ripple in the moonlight. Looking up, you see a sky filled with more stars than light in the Tokyo skyline.

“A view like this doesn’t exist in Tokyo,” you mutter to yourself, letting the immensity of it fall upon you.

As the night drags, the stars hold you less and the dim light beyond the hill more. The longer you watch, the more certain you are that it’s some kind of streetlight, with its yellow glow and the way it reflects off the faint fog rising from the dip beyond.

“Must be the wind pushing fog up from below,” you think, feeding another log to the fire. More smoke billows at once. You warm your hands and glance between the smoke and the glow. You notice how the fire reflects off the thin billows of smoke in the chimney. “It reflects the same way,” you think, looking back to the fog beyond the hill. “The smoke looks exactly like the… fog…”