billmurrayandghostbusters | somewhere in kansas } { of memories that go unremembered and then

He wakes up in a field in the middle of nowhere.

That's all he knows.

He doesn't know his name, where he is, or where he's been, but he knows that he's here, in this field, and the field is made of corn. That's all he really needs to know. Well, no, that isn't entirely true. His name would be very helpful. But for right now, he knows that there's a field. There's corn. And he's got this nagging feeling that he's not where he's supposed to be.

He pushes himself to his feet slowly, trying to find some kind of sign to tell him where he is or what he's supposed to be doing there. He catches the flash of headlights, and something in his brain tells him that there's a road there. He dusts himself off and starts stumbling forward, looking for that car, to see if he can get some kind of help.

Every instinct he has screams that this is wrong, but he doesn't know why. He just wants some answers. Maybe that will trigger something. He stumbles out into the street, waves a hand, and tries to get the oncoming car to stop.

Maybe they'll be able to tell him something he doesn't know.

In fact, he's pretty sure they will.

Threaded | Flat

Lois has driven down this road what seems like a million times, and for the most part, it's an uneventful thing, which is so much more than she could say for most other things in this town. Behind this wheel she could escape, just turn on some classic rock and let everything go. It was safe.

Until giants suddenly start filing out of the corn and into the road.

She stomps hard on the break to avoid hitting him and rolls down her window.

"Nice move, Andre," she says. "Try looking both ways next time."

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