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He was pulled from the oily river by an old man, oddly familiar. Sputtering and sucking at the air he blinked through his wet hair as his feet found their grounding and he stood. The old man had him by his coat still and, when he was able to stand, released him and stepped back. Owen wiped the hair and the water from his face and gazed at his apparent savior.

The man was older than he'd realized, crouched over, his thin and crooked hands wringing the water from his pant legs. His hair was thin and grey and wispy, ruffled by the soft heavy breeze. Owen didn't think to thank the man. Only gazed around at the strange dusky sky.

The old man finally looked up and when he did something inexplicably clicked for Owen. He stared at him, bewildered.

"Grandpa?"

The old man chuckled and shook his head. "Not really. Not yours."

"What happened to me?"

"You fell into the river and I pulled you out."

"But I wasn't in a river." He looked around again. "Am I dead?" he shivered.

"Not quite, no."

"Am I dreaming?"

"Not quite that either." Grandpa smiled. "Follow me..."