Marcus spoke through static and broken audio, trying to convince the stranger holding his phone that he was real. The voice on the other end kept asking questions — where was he, who was he, why should anyone believe a waterlogged phone could talk. Marcus answered with what he remembered: the cattails, the fog, the smell of mud and green things. But the stranger wasn't buying it. Marcus could hear footsteps splashing away, boots pulling from mud with wet sucking sounds. He needed proof — something only the real owner would have. "Check my background," he said through crackling speakers. "There's a pie sticker. Rhubarb. My sister made fun of me for it every time I pulled out my phone." The footsteps stopped. A pause stretched long enough that Marcus thought the battery might finally die. Then the stranger's voice came back, quieter now, uncertain. "Okay. I'll take you deeper. But if this is some kind of trick—" The phone jerked upward and the world tilted as the stranger started moving again, this time carrying Marcus toward the place he'd never quite reached. Twenty minutes later the stranger stopped short. Marcus heard breathing go shallow. "There are prints here," the stranger said. "Boots. Fresh enough." Marcus couldn't see them but he could smell it — mud churned recently, water still seeping back into the depressions. The prints led straight ahead into thicker growth. "That's the way," Marcus said, following his gut the way he always had. "Stay with those prints." The stranger hesitated. The trail split where the prints curved left toward dark water. "You sure? Looks like it goes into deep marsh." Marcus was sure of nothing except the pull he'd felt before the fog took him, the same pull that lived in his dreams. "Follow them," he said. The stranger stepped forward, and Marcus felt the shift — not just movement but commitment, the stranger choosing to trust a voice from a broken phone over every reasonable instinct to turn back. The trees grew closer together now, twisted trunks pressing in from both sides. Marcus caught the smell first — sharp and wrong, like metal mixed with sap. "Stop," he said. The stranger froze. Through the cracked speaker Marcus heard their breath catch. "What is that?" A tree stood directly ahead, massive and gnarled, its bark studded with small dark points. Darts. Hundreds of them, driven deep into the wood in careful rows. The stranger took a step back. "We shouldn't be here." But Marcus recognized this place from his dreams, the same twisted bark, the same pattern. "We're close," he said. "Maybe a quarter mile. This is the marker." The stranger didn't move for a long moment. Then the phone tilted as they looked past the tree, and Marcus knew they'd seen it too — the way forward, narrow but clear, leading deeper into the swamp where the fishing spot waited and where all his questions might finally have answers.