Brigid woke up in a parking lot.

This was not, in her experience, a normal way to wake up.

For one thing, the ground was hard. Not the pleasant springiness of moss or prairie grass, but a flat black surface that smelled faintly of oil and old rain. For another, the place was filled with strange square stone buildings arranged neatly along a quiet street lined with trees that looked vaguely familiar but somehow wrong.

Brigid sat up slowly.

Her red hair spilled around her shoulders as she blinked at the world with bright green eyes that had not seen daylight in a very long time.

She stretched.

A breeze wandered through the lot carrying the scent of asphalt, coffee, and tobacco.

“Well now,” she said thoughtfully, “that’s a fine surprise. Something’s changed.”

The parking lot itself was quiet.

A few curious metal animals rested nearby, painted white and blue with odd symbols on their sides. Their backs carried glass bubbles and thin sticks that reminded her of beetle antennae.

Brigid walked over and tapped one.

It did not move.

“Dead, then,” she concluded.

She hopped lightly onto the hood of the nearest one and sat cross-legged, studying the creature.

Moments later the creature spoke.

Not directly, of course. Its voice came from inside its belly in the form of a loud crackling squawk.

“Unit sixteen, possible disturbance on Milwaukee.”

Brigid jumped down immediately.

“Oh now that will not do,” she muttered.

The beast was haunted.

Just then a door on the nearby building opened and a police officer stepped outside holding a cup of coffee and a cigarette.

He stopped cold.

There, sitting barefoot on the hood of his squad car, was a red-haired young woman wearing what appeared to be a green dress made mostly of moss.

He stared for a moment.

Then he said, very calmly, “Why were you sitting on my car?”

Brigid blinked.

“Your car?”

“The squad car,” he said, pointing.

Brigid looked at the vehicle.

“Squad car?” she repeated. “Is that what you call this thing?”

The officer stared at her a moment longer.

Then he squinted.

“You from Indiana?”

Brigid considered this carefully.

“I don’t believe so.”

“You sound like a Hoosier.”

“Well that’s unfortunate,” Brigid said kindly.

The officer took a slow sip of coffee and decided that whatever this situation was, it would probably resolve itself if he simply walked away.

So he did.

As he headed back toward the station he muttered to himself, “Hippies.”

Brigid watched him go.

“Curious people,” she said.

Then she heard it.

At first it was distant — a deep rumbling roar like a herd of iron buffalo crossing stone.

She turned toward Milwaukee Avenue.

The sound came again.

Engines. Brakes squealing. Doors slamming. Voices layered on top of one another like birds arguing in a forest.

Brigid’s eyes lit up.

“Oh now that sounds like fun.”

She skipped out of the parking lot toward Gale Street.

The closer she came to Milwaukee Avenue, the louder it grew. Buses hissed as they stopped. Cars rushed past in gleaming streams of metal. Pedestrians hurried along the sidewalks with newspapers and briefcases.

Brigid stepped onto the corner and stared in delight.

“Well now,” she whispered, “that’s a wonder.”

A bus pulled up beside the curb with a long wheezing sigh.

Its doors folded open.

People climbed out.

Brigid clapped happily.

“They hatch!”

No one noticed.

She wandered farther along Milwaukee Avenue until she reached the window of a diner where a man behind the counter was cooking something on a long metal grill.

On the grill were dozens of small cylindrical meat objects slowly rolling back and forth.

Brigid pressed her nose against the glass.

“Well now that’s clever.”

Inside, the cook looked up.

He stared at the red-haired woman studying his hot-dog rollers as if they were the most fascinating invention in human history.

Brigid waved cheerfully.

The cook looked at the man beside him.

“You seeing this?”

Brigid leaned closer to the glass.

“Are they trainin’, then?” she asked earnestly.

The cook blinked.

“What?”

“The little sausages,” Brigid explained patiently. “They keep rolling back and forth. Are they practicing something?”

The cook stared at her for several seconds.

“Lady,” he said finally, “I just cook ’em.”

Brigid nodded thoughtfully.

“Of course you do.”

She continued wandering down Milwaukee until she passed Pasquale’s Pizza.

The smell stopped her cold.

She inhaled deeply.

“Well now,” she whispered with great reverence, “that’s magic if ever I smelled it.”

Farther along she discovered a newspaper stand and picked up a copy of the Chicago Tribune.

She unfolded it upside down.

“Fascinating,” she said.

Behind her a CTA bus roared past toward the Jefferson Park terminal.

Brigid spun around, delighted.

“Oh this place is marvelous entirely.”

Laughing to herself, she skipped north along Milwaukee Avenue toward Foster, waving at startled pedestrians as if she had just arrived at the most entertaining festival in human history.

Somewhere ahead of her — though she did not yet know it — another young woman with very short blonde hair was already wandering Jefferson Park asking a butcher why he kept animals in cold boxes.

But that was a story for another day.

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