Laundry Marker

You have not moved, and the nearest sheet takes its three paces at once and stops with its hem a hand from your shoe. On its tape, letters come up in laundry marker, one at a time, in a hand that leans: the name you left in the Log.

The sheet lifts its hem the way a man lifts his hat. Under it there is nothing, and the nothing is teal, and it hums one note.

You hum it back, a little flat. The sheet lowers its hem. The other two turn their eyeholes after the sound and stay where they are.

Then it turns and goes ahead of you toward the gap, a pace at a time, stopping when you stop.