text: [Themes: Science Fiction, Horror, unreliable narrator, amnesia, beach]
  
  > look around
  sheet metal and plastic welded together. One wall is open, with a flapping piece of tarp serving as the only protection from the wind. Bits of equipment litter the sandy ground.
  A recording device rests on the ground. It appears to be dead.
  
  There is a mirror propped against the wall. A partially buried
  helmet lies nearby.
  
  > look at the tarp
  A flapping piece of tarp, serving as your only protection from the wind.
  
  > go outside
  (that is, outside)
  You push the tarp aside and walk out of the makeshift tent. Where you buried the cat you notice, with the memory of a feeling, a scrap of green sleeve sticking out from the dark sand.
  You step out onto the cold sand.
  
  shelter. The makeshift tent is made from pieces of sheet metal and plastic welded together, with flapping piece of tarp your only protection from the wind. Bits of obscure equipment litter the sandy ground, salvaged from the wreck.
  
  You can see a partially buried sleeve here.
  
  > look at the sleeve
  It is a scrap of sleeve from a green jacket. A little farther up a piece of collar emerges from the sand mound. You can barely make out yellow lettering, saying: "Gabriel ..." but the rest of the name is covered in sand.
  
  > Go north
  You pause as you walk to the shore, and take some of the sand
  from the beach in your hand. When you were a child, you built sandcastles from this substance. You let the sand fall through your changing fingers. This world has never known a castle.
  
  As you walk to the shore, you watch how the moon has broken
  apart in slivers on the surface of the inky water. You keep muttering to yourself, like a mantra: "All that would be left were his footprints, heading out to sea. All that would be left were his footprints, heading out to sea."
  You are standing on the shore. Out in the water, you see a
  figure standing.
  
  Yellow, strong-smelling foam is building up where the surf meets the land. The moon has broken apart in slivers on the inky water. Out in the water, you see a figure standing.
  
  > examine the figure
  You can't make out any details from here. It is a large silhouette,
  its angles and lines completely alien to you.
  
  > go north
  As you tread out into the cold water, you hear the grainy,
  recorded voice in your head: "Laurence Wyndham is dead."
  You're the master of your own destiny, Larry Wyndham,
  you think. Another day, another dollar, Larry Wyndham.
  You wade up to your waist. In the water, you feel your skin
  change. The figure stands over you. It reaches down to touch your
  face.
  
  The wind blows sand over the footprints on the beach. In less than a day, it's as though they've never been there.
  
  > Go north
  The smell is strong; you want to find out what's causing it first.
  
  > take the shovel
  ground. Dark, sticky fluid comes up with the blade and drips over your feet.
  
  You focus your eyes. It's just trapped water from the wet sand.
  
  > Dig
  You heft the shovel, wincing at your aching shoulder. You feel exhausted, as though you've already been digging all night.
  
  The ground is strangely soft and spongy. You gouge dark clots of
  earth from the dampening sand and hum tunelessly to yourself. The hole begins to grow.
  
  > Search clump
  You push some of the grass aside, revealing the moist carcass of a
  dead black cat. Blue-grey glimmering filaments of sticky rot
  crisscross its matted black fur like a lattice. Its eyes are dull yellow, going white with accumulated pus. You gag at the repulsive smell.
  
  > go north
  If you leave without burying the cat, birds will come. From a
  distance, it will be obvious that they are eating something dead on your lawn. And then people will think you are crazy. This is a hassle you don't need.
  
  Granted, you do live alone in a shack, you're a drunk,
  and your memory is shot to hell. Also granted, there is a
  dead animal on your lawn. Then again, you have no idea how it got there. Which other people will definitely take into account when you explain how not crazy you are. Because the world is a warm and welcoming place for scavengers fallen upon hard times.
  
  Yeah. Better bury the cat.
  
  > go to the north
  You don't want to go into the water wearing only these canvas shoes; it's easy to cut yourself up in there.
  
  > go south
  Around the shack is long dry grass and bits of broken glass. Down a little ways to the north you see the grey shoreline, and then the black, roaring ocean.
  
  You can see your shack door, your rubber boots and a bucket (empty) here.
  
  > take boots
  Taken.
  
  > wear boots
  You sit on the rock and pull the worn rubber boots on over your tattered canvas sneakers.
  
  > Go north
  Yellow, strong-smelling foam is building up where the surf meets the land. A dead, dry fish lies on the sand. Sea water sparkles in its empty eye sockets. You see a bottle floating on the waves close to shore.
  
  You can see a dead fish here.
  
  > go north
  You wade out into the dark water, until it comes a little over
  your waist. You stand still, the cold water splashing against your chest.
  
  As you stand there, you think about mermaids, creatures that
  always terrified you when you were a child. You loathed the image of sickly pale human faces ploughing through the black waves. Even though they had human faces, their bodies were horrific - serpentine and hidden in the water like roots. A man would walk into the ocean
  towards the face, and when he saw what it really was it would be too late.
  
  All that would be left was his footprints, heading into the sea.
  
  The Shore (in the ocean)
  Yellow, strong-smelling foam is building up where the surf meets the land. A dead, dry fish lies on the sand. Sea water sparkles in its empty eye sockets. You see a bottle floating on the waves close to shore.
  
  You can see a dead fish here.
  
  A corked bottle floats just out of your reach. Inside, you can see a scrap of wrinkled paper.
  
  > Go north
  You daren't go any farther. The undertow will catch you.
  
  > Y.
  debugcheapnitfol quit with exit status: 0
  
  Odd, how the light just makes your apartment gloomier. Pre-dawn darkness pools in the corners and around the tops of walls. Your desk lamp glares yellow, but the shadows only draw your eyes and deepen.
  
  Not much of an apartment, no. One desk, paper-piled, with a dusty computer shoved to the side. Your futon. Second-hand stereo sitting on a cardboard crate. A kitchen nook one way and a bathroom nook the other, with a closet to the side. A broad mirror tries to make the place seem twice its size; it halfway works. One window, whose shade
  is down, and the front door firmly shut.
  
  Your luggage is piled untidily by the door. A potted hyacinth sits beneath the window.
  
  You are sprawled on the futon, staring up into that gloom. Your eyes feel gritty. But it's too late -- early -- no time left for sleep, anyway. In a few hours your ride will arrive.
  
  On the desk are your to-do list and a travel book.
  
  > Sleep
  You've been trying all night. It's not going to happen, no matter how long you lie here.
  
  > look at the list
  You won't accomplish much while slumped on the futon. That's been getting slowly more apparent for hours now.
  
  > stand
  You lever yourself upright. Umf. It's amazing how much lack of sleep feels like a hangover, only without the preceding party.
  
  > get up
  The taxi isn't here yet.
  
  Come to think of it, as with a hangover, dehydration is probably the problem. Your mouth is dry wool.
  
  > look at the list
  You sit down at the desk.
  
  items and scribbled corrections. However, everything seems to have gotten done. The last line reads "Call taxi", and it has its
  checkmark, and here you wait.
  
  > look at luggage
  You've packed and repacked: breakdown tent, dried food, sunscreen, compass, mylar space-blanket, long underwear and showoff tats, walking shoes and dancing shoes and hiking shoes. You're ready for the Death Valley Om.
  
  (As ready as you're likely to get. It is, of course, the Death Valley Om -- half arts festival, half cult, a week in the deep desert where people show off, have sex, take drugs, and maintain a twenty-four-hour constant OM. Sand, heat, and thousands of throats. A space
  outside the world; with no dues except that you join in the chant, as much as is in you to chant.)
  
  > examine the hyacinth
  This plant is your one claim to actual responsibility. The hyacinth sits by the window, soaking up sunlight (when it's not night) and managing to thrive despite your lack of gardening skill. Although it looks a little parched at the moment.
  
  > examine the kitchen
  You stand up.
  
  The kitchen alcove has a refrigerator, a sink, a stove, and barely enough space to stand between them. One wall projects out to form a counter, with a cupboard beneath it.
  
  On the kitchen counter is a glass.
  
  > take glass
  You step into the kitchen nook.
  
  Taken.
  
  You're still feeling thirsty.
  
  > turn on the sink
  (the kitchen sink)
  Nothing comes from the tap but an eerie distant howling. The kitchen sink hasn't worked since you moved in.
  
  > turn on the sink
  (the bathroom sink)
  You spin the tap. The pipes sound like an indigestive mammoth, but water does dribble out of the faucet. Reassured, you turn the tap back off.
  
  > fill glass
  The faucet rattles, and water dribbles into the glass.
  
  > Drink water
  (the glassful of water)
  You gulp the water. It feels vaguely astringent in your mouth, unsatisfying. Well, no doubt thirst will be more real after you fly to California --
  
  > fill glass
  The faucet rattles, and water dribbles into the glass.
  
  -- Fly? Where did you leave your plane tickets?
  
  > Water hyacinth
  You step out of the bathroom nook.
  
  You water the plant.
  
  You hate this feeling. It happens all the time. Something
  safely accomplished, and then pow, you have to worry about it again. Unfair! The tickets must be here somewhere.
  
  > search the luggage
  You quickly pop open each suitcase and riffle through, trying not to disarrange your tidy packing too badly. Nope. The tickets aren't
  there.