She vanishes, promptly, which is possibly something of an overreaction-- there's a glimmer in the periphery of the dream of a wooded land that is wetter and blacker and greener than this one, of something within it that is tall, eight feet including its long neck. Twin red lights as eyes, sharp specks of illumination, rising steam off metal flanks. But it's gone again, merely the impression of an image of the periphery of the dreamer's vision, a light trick, Benji locking down her own subconscious.

Perched not far away from the girl, as if she'd always been there, her nails digging into cold, chalky bark. Seated primly and in largely impractical footwear for tree climbing, she'd apologise, but then she'd have to explain what for.

She says, under the noise, through the noise; what's happening?