Crouched over a small jar of ash – labelled “Toto” – sat a fragile old woman. Her white pigtailed hair reflected the candle-light, and her blue plaid dress had faded to a navy-grey. She stroked the vase from time to time, and whispered delusioned calls to her dead dog.

Dorothy had returned to Kansas seventy years ago, but since then the world had changed. The sky was grey with smog, the trees – far and few – leafless and dying, killed by the poisonous smoke that covered the land in a dark shadow.

Glenda had appeared in her room at the Old Folks’ Home and given her one last oppurtunity to visit Emerald City. All Dorothy wanted was to live here, in Oz. The Wizard had, why couldn’t she?
But one more thing: She wanted to be young. She wanted to be able to skip, once more, along the Yellow Brick Road, and she would make him grant it, even by force.

In her small clutch bag sat a mug with a teabag inside it, ready for the big moment. The signature ingredient was clenched in her hand: a vial of poison.