You wake up in a ditch, half your body submerged in the dirty water. The air is cold on your skin. You become aware that your shirt has been ripped twice down the front and you are missing a shoe.

How did you get here? Where did your Mom go? The last thing you remember is the smell of oil against the floorboard of the Kuga.

You stand up. You are somewhere near mountains, in a field with wild grass grown as high as suburban fencing. You start out in a direction, before suddenly being overcome with the sensation that something is crawling on your back. Not just something, many things. You rip the tattered remains of your shirt from your body and try to rub whatever it is on your back off. You can’t see back there. You can’t tell if whatever it is, is actually there.

The sun casts a sick light on the field ahead of you. Or is it the moon, so bright that you think it’s daytime? Off against the tree-line you see a single woman in a long blue dress pushing a lacy baby carriage.

You call to her. You call to her again. You call to her again. And then, as if it took everything else in the world stopping first, she turns her head in your direction.

(This song is written to sync with the opening credits of The Last Will and Testament of Rosalind Leigh.)