Alone in a cabin in the woods at night, I had a sixth sense that I was in danger. I checked out the cabin's layout. It had a wraparound deck, which made it easier to break into, but even worse—there were no real locks, simply tabs that could be opened from the outside with a little effort. They were so rudimentary that I realized that anyone could get in.
As if to prove my point, a man opened the door as easily as if it had not been locked and came in with his family. They were not the danger, but it occurred to me that they could have brought it with them. As I was mulling what to do and the family was chattering away, one of the children said to me, "Why aren't you wearing your hearing aid?" while pointing to it. I did not know that I had one, and I started to feel like a stranger to myself. I looked out into the darkness, apprehensively.
When I sat down again, I saw a snake enter, and I warned the family. I didn't know if it were venomous, so I tried to describe its markings; the brown, green, and red colors were patchy and without a pattern. The snake seemed preternaturally intelligent, coming straight for me with purpose. Then I saw that it could not be a snake, because now it had fur, four legs, and ears; now it looked more like a long, thin fox. I was becoming frightened because I had expected the danger to be human. When I looked again, the snake-fox was indeed human and was claiming to be checking up on me.
I didn't believe him.