Ian is three and a half years old.

The room he is in looks red.

Not bright red. A dark, tired red—the kind that comes when a weak light burns somewhere beyond the room and reaches the walls only after passing through a curtain. Ian cannot tell where the light comes from. He cannot even tell whether it is night.

Is he under a bed?

At least, he thinks he is.

Above him there is darkness. It may be the flat wooden belly of the bed. Beyond it, the room stretches into shadows. The furniture seems larger than it should be. A chair in the corner looks almost like a person sitting very still.

Ian listens.

Nothing.

No footsteps. No voices. No sound from another room.

“Mum?”

He tries to say it loudly.

The word comes out small.

He tries again.

“Dad?”

His throat feels strange, as though his voice is trapped somewhere inside his chest. He knows he is calling, but the sound does not seem strong enough to travel beyond the room.

He wants to scream.

Nothing happens.

For a moment, Ian wonders whether he is asleep.

Perhaps this is a dream.

If it is a dream, he only needs to wake up.

He closes his eyes tightly.

Then opens them.

The room is still red.

The chair is still there.

The silence is still there.

Why is nobody coming?

Perhaps his parents are hiding.

The thought makes sense to him. Adults sometimes hide things. Sometimes they disappear into other rooms without explaining where they are going.

Maybe they are just outside.

Maybe they are waiting for him to find them.

Ian listens again.

Nothing.

And then another possibility arrives.

It is much worse.

Perhaps they have gone.

He does not know where people go when they leave. At three and a half, distance has no proper measurement. Another room can be far away. The end of the street can be another world.

What Ian understands is simpler.

Here.

Not here.

His parents are not here.

His eyes begin to hurt. He wants his mother to find him. He wants his father to call his name. He wants somebody to tell him that the room is only a room and that nothing has happened.

But nobody does.

Being alone does not feel like having nobody beside him.

It feels like the people he needs have disappeared.

He waits beneath the bed—or wherever he is—surrounded by the strange red darkness.

Ian opens his eyes. He does not know how long it has been.

He is in his own bed.

It is a bright day.

For a moment, he lies very still.

The red room is gone, but it still feels close.

He hears his mother talking to his brother in the next room.

Ordinary voices.

Familiar voices.

Outside, sunlight fills the day.

Ian wants to call out and tell her what has happened.

But he does not know what has happened.

Was it a dream?

Was he really under the bed?

Was he only sleepy?

He cannot tell.

So he stays quiet.

He listens to his mother’s voice.

He looks toward the bright window.

She is there.

His brother is there.

The day is warm and full of light.

Ian closes his eyes for a moment.

He is happy that the red room is gone.