I drove County Road 7 on a Tuesday in October, just after midnight, to clear my head. The road was straight for miles through flat farmland, and I remember thinking how strange it was that the white line seemed to drift toward the shoulder as I watched. Then I noticed the asphalt stretching ahead had a faint ripple, like a sheet being pulled taut. I pulled over at an abandoned grain elevator and got out to look. The road behind me was gone — not vanished, but coiled, like a ribbon wound back on itself, the telephone poles leaning inward as if the whole thing had been gathered up. I walked a hundred feet and found the pavement had folded into a neat loop, the double yellow line spiraling into its own center. And from inside that loop, a voice I recognized asked me why I'd stopped walking.

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