In the dwindling light of dusk, Giles scrambled beneath a turnstile and entered the campsite. Above him, ferns unfurled like palm trees from a fever dream. Passing empty, sodden pile upon pile he wondered if this was a global event, and if he might be the sole survivor and what that might mean. The life of a wanderer. Lone, hard survival and scavenging. Hard, yes, but with it, a freedom from responsibility. Freedom from judgement. He shook the creep of those darkling ideas away and waded into knee-deep grass, marvelling up at the mishmash of anchor lines, pylon cables and canvas domes - the once pedestrian tents, now a shanty town of neon cathedrals. Like the photograph, it seemed that the same thing but bigger was not the same thing, at all.

A jolt of nervous energy rocked his stomach as a faint cry broke the silence. Seeking its source, the dark gave way to a single dot, a light flickering inside a red dome tent on the far edge of the field. Giles ran towards it, elation at the sound of another living soul mixing with trepidation. The survivor inside might be unchanged. To them, Giles would be a monstrosity. Then, an ugly hope simmered, that if they were in trouble, injured perhaps, he could help. He would be of practical use. Approaching the tent door, he felt a pang of guilt, disgusted at the idea that a shared suffering would somehow be a good thing. Nervous, Giles pressed his ear to the canvas and listened to the murmur of not one, but several distant and indistinct voices. Steadying himself against the fear of what he might be about to discover, he stepped through the zip.