Nestled in the dark... in a mob of hollow sleeves and empty pant legs... in an unfamiliar space... in a room of muffled sound... in the midst of static air... in a semi-stranger’s absence... in a situation troubling... in a frame of mind unbound... in a mood remote as limbo... in a stupor thick as fog... in a realm with neither speech nor clear communication... in a pall that seldom lifts to reveal a glimpse of self... in a womb without a heartbeat... in a hush that breeds cold comfort... in a draught that leaks its chilly breath where doorjamb borders floor... in a wardrobe dense with smells that feign associations... in an atmosphere of dust balls clumped like guilty secrets... in a doze of dreams where sentience merely imitates awareness... in a trance aloof and lasting as an esoteric spell... in a vacuum of emotion... in a dearth of comprehension...  in an orbit craving union... in a realm inciting sobs... in a vestibule divested of emblem, plaque, or signpost... in an echo mocking solitude... in a gulf immersing awe, recognition, understanding, interaction, curiosity... in a bog as bleak as quicksand threatening to engulf, Yvette Nguyen awaits either rescue or abandonment.