ALT October 28, 2026 YOU’RE WALKING IN THE WOODS WHEN SUDDENLY R.J. Cross there is, inexplicably, a tennis court. Or what had been a tennis court. It’s old—very old, hasn’t seen a game in a decade or something like that: the net now gone, the poles that held the net twisted over, the tall chain link around it now rusted and bent. Which gives the sudden impression of being not a tennis court, but a cage. Or what had been a cage. A former cage, which formerly held something: now empty. Which gives the sudden impression that you are not walking these woods alone. That something escaped the cage no longer a cage, that was a court but no longer a court, that bided its time until that time came, now waiting—perhaps—for you.
ALT October 28, 2026 YOU’RE WALKING IN THE WOODS WHEN SUDDENLY R.J. Cross there is, inexplicably, a tennis court. Or what had been a tennis court. It’s old—very old, hasn’t seen a game in a decade or something like that: the net now gone, the poles that held the net twisted over, the tall chain link around it now rusted and bent. Which gives the sudden impression of being not a tennis court, but a cage. Or what had been a cage. A former cage, which formerly held something: now empty. Which gives the sudden impression that you are not walking these woods alone. That something escaped the cage no longer a cage, that was a court but no longer a court, that bided its time until that time came, now waiting—perhaps—for you.
