I played inside a jungle gym at McDonald’s a long time ago. That place was once under the sun, and families would go there before health came into fashion. There was a plastic blue shelf for our shoes, there were chairs and tables for the parents to mingle at while their children searched for joy in the maze of plastic colors.
            In the center of the impressive structure, was an octagonal room, completely red. I’d crawl to it on my knees through a blue vestibule. If I was not completely lost, then I pretended to be. I must get to the red room, I’d say, because the world outside would soon erupt in cataclysmic fire. And when that happened, the red room would jettison itself into space, leaving me to start anew. My siblings were there with me, perhaps a friend, and I convinced them all of my grave yet intriguing prophecy. The world would end, and only those in the red room would be saved. While they probably did not believe me, I am certain that they wanted to, because they listened. Everyone gathered in a circle in that last oasis for mankind, just staring into the bright red glow. We’d hear another straggler stomping around another tube. The poor soul. Who could help them now—on the eve of the end? But I wouldn’t let that happen. I’d announce my bold intentions to save the lost child, then leave the oasis behind. Few knew the turns and rooms as well, and I’d always return. They would always follow.