Caliban backs away into the twisted facsimile of Greenwich Village, losing sight of whatever creature is pretending to be Antwohnette.

“Why are you trying to abandon me, Caliban?” A voice behind him asks. Caliban slowly turns around. Standing in the middle of the street, one arm crossed to hold her elbow to her side, is Antwohnette.

“Netty, I’m— are you okay?”

A shout emanates to Caliban’s left. “Caliban! Run!” The large, black fox turns to look. Spotlit by a streetlamp, Antwohnette stands, hands cupped to her mouth with a stricken expression.

“Yes, Caliban. You’d better run.” The voice next to him, which no longer sounds like Antwohnette, says.