There are times when she is in the Bright Place, where the sutures in the skull of the earth open and are marked in her memory, the places where she can find passage into the madness of Rv. Emersohn’s kingdom. “What is your Door?” they question. This is not a place where she can access the council of the Repeated King, although there seems to be intimations of a return, of signal-spaces within the black net of the Summerland delta. The sway of cattails along the riverbank in the cloud-dappled moonlight are the first thing she saw when her consciousness returns to her body, brushing the salt from her skin she applied in order to hide her corporeal form from the devils Emersohn employs to keep his enemies lost forever in dead time. She listened for the sounds of the trains and crossed abandoned lots and piles of broken concrete until she stood upon the tracks. She stares down the tracks to their terminus and realizes they were not formed to aid commerce and commuters but lines of power within the ground, a secret road, and so she finds her direction again. She saw the backs of houses, doors marked with sigils of displacement and ensnarement, blood-trails leading into storm cellars become temples of sacrifice. The only audible sound is the gravel shifting beneath her boots. There were no lights in the sky.

the exit is hidden within the exit