It’s a place where all doors lead somewhere else and when you come back through, you don’t ever return to the same place again, a place where a man leads disjointed lives, sliding with chameleonic ease into every new narrative that presents itself.

“Time to see which of my friends and followers are still active,” Robert Quick leans back in his seat and cracks his knuckles, the sound rolling out in the empty computer lab. Light suddenly splashes from an open doorway. Robert squints, shielding his eyes with an open palm.

It is Mr Unpronounceable and he is saying something. With his hands. “Good to see you again, in my temporary respite from this and that.”

“What’s that Sanskrit you’re writing in the air with your hands, and how come I can understand you?” Robert is one cool cucumber, as always.

“I been deafer’n a doornail since I was birthed, and that’s the oiled grease of your knack playing out, my friend,” I sign, clapping a hand on his back.

We choose a door at random and live in interesting tales.