A white house on a green hill. Twilight streams through the plastic-covered windows, while the breeze causes the plastic to move and crinkle as if someone is hiding right behind.

I walk through the pristine white kitchen into the spotless white living room. John stands at a door painting a single, red stripe all the way up and down. We’re both wearing white coveralls. I look at my hand. I’m painting an orange stripe on the wall.

“John, what’s going on? Where are we?”

John turns around and smiles at me, but never stops painting. He doesn’t say anything, he just keeps painting.

I set my brush down and walk down the hallway. All the doors are closed. I start opening doors. The first few rooms are white and pristine. The next room is covered in dust. It’s almost grey. I pick up a knick-knack and see the ring of white that dust didn’t touch. The next rooms are just like this, getting progressively dirtier. Dirty, grimy, dusty. In a panic, I run to the last door. The door is pitch black. I reach for the handle.