The yurt is full of mysteries. Spices and cooking utensils attesting to months of meals in solitude. Shelves and drawers full of tools and knickknacks; faded pictures of relatives; a TV and tablet that look like they’re from 2005, even though it’s the distant future. You don’t know who you are, nor do you know what happened, but every surface is covered in scraps of paper that add lines to the obituary of a long-dead world. Newspaper clippings about the “contamination sphere.” Magazines announcing new advances in augmentation. A note from someone, somewhere: Times have changed, grandpa. These days any moron can copy DNA. Practically everything is interactive; the only thing that permits no interaction is the altar, containing a statue of Buddha and the Tibetan Book of the Dead. But across from the altar sits an even more enigmatic figure: an android woman, legless, turned into a kind of makeshift flower vase. For now, it’s time to make breakfast.