After a night and a day of dreams he couldn’t remember, Mr. Tonnitia woke in a place unfamiliar to him feeling utterly depressed. It was a desert, stark and unfriendly and scrubby, ringed by brown and craggy mountains. He was lying, bleary-eyed, in a tent, rocks and roots digging into his hips where he pressed against the soil. The tent was aglow. He dragged himself stiffly, wearily outside. The sky was bright and the air luminous but the sun was still hidden behind one of the mountains. He stretched the kinks out of his neck and his back and watched the sunrise. He felt a little better afterwards.
Overhead small white birds were flying, wheeling through the luminiferous aether. He watched them until his neck was sore again, the only movement in the great bowl of the world. There was a canteen full of water in the tent, and some dried food, but not much else. A sleeping roll, and a small fire kit.
Mr. Tonnitia sighed and struck camp. He picked the most likely direction and started walking, with little hope of finding rescue or civilisation before he died. It was just one of those days.
Overhead the small white birds kept him company.