Reading about it--even having that creepy drawing hung up on Bodhi's wall--doesn't prepare him for standing on the other side of the glass. It's the absurdity of the door, turned up to eleven. It's like stepping inside of a movie, and he thinks he'd almost rather meet Mr. Tumnus in a snowy clearing.

Goat legs he could almost roll his eyes at. This--he blows a breath through the narrow gap of his teeth and lower lip, then rolls it into a bite.

The fluorescent light washes them out; he closes the book and sets it on the jar, suffocating the candle to save it, and puts his own hand up inches from Karen's. The barrier is solid and cool, their dark silhouettes connected by the rope tied between. Its length isn't quite taut at the door, but it has raised from the ground, cutting the corner about a foot high.

"I keep wanting this to be the world's longest episode of What Would You Do," he says, removing his hand to fish the glasses from his pocket. It's no less unnerving when brought into focus, though a little less alien abduction re-enactment. "Fuck--" he points to the nearest cooler, the vials labeled with letters and spots of color. "Are those initials?"