The Fog Museum

Alexander Danner

The sign posted to the door read, “Drive Slowly: Hazardous Conditions,” which was true as far as it went. Had Benny driven her car into the museum, hazards could not have failed to present themselves, most obviously her own car barreling across the lobby to smash through the lucite donation box at the center of the room before destroying the glass door to the exhibit itself, and potentially the attending security guard who stood beside it. Obviously, Benny wasn’t driving her car. She had come up the stairs and into the museum on foot, as anyone would. So the sign was just dumb.

“That sign is really dumb,” she said out loud to the security guard, whose name was Carlos. It said so on his embroidered name tag.

“Yeah,” said Carlos. “I know. You think I don’t know how dumb that sign is? I stand right here next to it every day. All day. I know how dumb the sign is.”

“Well. Good,” said Benny. “I’m glad you’ve been paying attention.” She dropped a tenner into the lucite box.

The door to the exhibit hall was closed. This was necessary to keep the exhibit itself contained. Benny wasn’t sure what she’d expected to find inside the museum, but she certainly hadn’t expected anything so literal. An art collection, perhaps. Or a historical display. She’d assumed that “Fog” was the name of the founder, one Arturo Q. Fog, or Melinda Rockefeller Van Fog, or even just John Fog. But no, The Fog Museum was a purely descriptive name. A few wisps of the roiling mist snaked out through the crack beneath the glass door. The lobby floor was slightly hazy.

“Thank you for your donation,” said Carlos. “Generosity like yours makes all the difference for institutions like ours.”

“I’ll be right back,” said Benny, then she retreated to the restroom.

Peeing is an essential first step to exploring any museum. Benny knew the disappointment of reaching the most captivating exhibit, only to have the experience undercut by an agony of the bladder. It had happened to her while walking the length of the Apollo rocket at Kennedy Spaceport, forcing her to break the viewing into two legs. She’d had the mystique of Elvis Presley’s gallstones ruined by her bodily needs in White River Junction, in a museum so tiny she could still have seen the exhibits from the toilet, if she’d left the door open. In Columbus, Ohio, she’d gotten so completely lost that by the time she’d found the International Drainage Hall of Fame, she’d barely glanced at the black and white photos of old men on display before hurrying off to find a restroom. Now she knew: “Always tinkle before you tour.” That was Benny’s motto.

She also took the opportunity to check her phone. No messages, but she sent out a quick tweet to her friends and followers of her travel adventures.

Benicia Deluca @VagaBondGirl90
Checking out @fogmuseum. Seems a little sketchy. Anyone else been here? #traveltips

Her phone pinged, signaling a new message Tweeted at her.

The Fog Museum (@fogmuseum) is now following you on Twitter!

Great. A few more messages followed, nothing useful—friends telling her to be careful if it seemed weird, followers looking forward to her report on a new attraction. It didn’t seem that anyone in her circle knew anything about it. She stuffed her phone back in her bag, finished her business, and returned to the lobby.

“Feeling better?” Carlos asked.

“Always tinkle before you tour,” she said. “That’s my motto.”

“Wow,” said Carlos. “That’s a terrible motto.”

“Anyway,” she continued, “your Twitter person sure is eager.”

“She’s just a kid. I think she’s somebody’s niece.”

“How big is the exhibit?”

“Smaller than it feels. Stick to the walls if you get nervous.”

“I’m not the nervous sort.”

“So you’ll be going in sometime soon?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Shall I open the door?”

“Go for it.”

Carlos reached over to grab the handle.

“You’re sure you’re ready?”

“Come on, dude, just open it.”

“Dude? Who says dude anymore?”

“Fine, Carlos, please let me into the damn exhibit.”

He opened the door and gave a small bow, ushering her in. The wall of fog against the door fell immediately, poured to the floor and spread out, engulfing Benny’s sandals. She wiggled her toes, wondering how far into the hall she would have to go before she lost sight of her purple nail polish. She snapped a pic of Carlos holding the door for her, #snarkybutcute.

“The display’s getting away,” said Carlos. “I need to close the door.”

She stepped inside and Carlos closed the door behind her. She was tempted to wait there while the fog refilled the space that had emptied, but she imagined Carlos laughing at her for looking petrified. At that thought, she pushed directly into the fog, no skirting the walls. She could still see into the lobby when she looked back, five feet in, but the triumphant grin she brandished for Carlos’ benefit was wasted; his back stayed to the room, completely disinterested.

Her phone pinged, three times in succession.

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Welcome, and enjoy your tour!

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 You are now in Radiation Fog Hall. Don’t worry—it’s not radioactive!

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Radiation Fog is formed by ground-level humidity cooling as heat radiates from the Earth at day’s end.

She debated silencing her phone. She didn’t need some digital tour guide to explain fog to her. The appeal here was experience, not education. But as she moved further in, her view of the lobby faded quickly. It wouldn’t take much to lose all frame of reference. A connection to the outside world might be nice, she decided. She set it to vibrate, stuffed it back into her purse, and continued walking. There was nothing particular to walk toward, so far as she could tell, just a soft grey expanse that she trusted would reveal something sooner or later. At the very least, she would hit the wall on the opposite side before long.

Or not.

After ten minutes, she had encountered nothing. No displays, no walls, no other people. There wasn’t even much sound, save for the clopping of her own flip-flops on the floor, which was muted and echo-less, despite the seemingly cavernous space. She reached her arms out to her sides; if she was passing anything, she didn’t want to miss it. It was oppressive, not even knowing how large a space she was in. It could be the size of a football stadium, or just a hallway. And why was there no echo? Were the walls really that far away?

“Hello?” she called out, but no response came from the space around her. Her purse buzzed against her hip. She sighed and took her phone back out.

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Hello!

“Yeah, hi!” she called back. “That’s not at all creepy, by the way!”

She began to worry that she might be walking in circles, and as soon as she thought it, she realized that of course she was. She’d read all about it, how blindfolded people move in spirals, never in straight lines. She should have thought of it right away, but whatever, it was a problem easily fixed. She pulled up the app store on her phone, downloaded a free compass app, et voila: Navigation! She was currently facing northeast, so she turned to face true north, and struck off again. She had no special reason for choosing north, but it had worked for the magi, so why not?

Two minutes later, she felt something crunch beneath her feet. She bent to examine it, using her phone to light the ground. She was surprised to find she was standing on black asphalt, which was littered with translucent pebbles. Glass, most likely. Safety glass. She stood up and took just two more steps before she found the wrecked car. It was a Civic, just like the car she’d been living out of the past few years, though this one was a couple models older. The entire front end was caved in by some collision, and the windshield was shattered outward. Benny took a step closer. A deflated airbag, spotted with long-dried blood, dangled from the steering column. She took a photo, #YIKES.

Her phone buzzed.

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Radiation Fog is a particular hazard for night drivers—remember, when visibility drops, SLOW DOWN!

“Sorry I stepped on the glass,” said Benny. “I didn’t see it.”

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 No worries! All exhibits are fully interactive. Please touch, interact, and explore.

Benny reached out and opened the driver’s side door, then bent to look inside. There was a dirty travel mug in the cup holder and some old CDs scattered across the back seat. She popped the trunk, then headed around the back. The trunk was mostly empty, except for a couple of toppled grocery bags, their contents splayed across the trunk. The produce had long since collapsed into moldy puddles, but there was a box of peanut butter chocolate chip granola bars, still unexpired, if not exactly fresh. “Is it okay if I take these?”

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Take whatever you think you’ll need on your journey!

She continued north for an hour, an hour and a half, two hours, with little to see, save for an old mayonnaise jar abandoned on the ground, filled will a dark yellow liquid that could only be one thing, #doubleYIKES. Apparently the restrooms in here were really hard to find. Obviously. “Who’s got the terrible motto now, Carlos?” This made a great update for her followers—the photo earned her a succession of grossed-out responses and retweets.

After another hour of walking, she sat down on the floor and unwrapped a granola bar. It was ten minutes to five. What would they do if she was still in here at closing time, whenever that was? Would they vacuum out all the fog to reveal the exits? She plugged her phone into a portable charge stick she’d brought with her, thankful that she’d had the foresight to drop that into her bag before leaving her car.

“Okay, I give,” she said around a mouthful of food. “Am I actually getting anywhere?”

A reply came immediately:

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Of course! You’re getting further north! Mostly nobody thinks to bring a compass. #alwaysbeprepared

“Is that the right way to go?”

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Depends. Are you looking for something specific?

“Not really. But I haven’t found an exhibit in hours. Can you point to the next one?”

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Of course! Head NNE. It’s kind of a hike, but you’ve been making awesome time.

“Sweet. It’d better be good, though.”

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 It totally is! Anyway, gotta go. Dinner at 5:30, and Dad flips if I’m not there on the dot.

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 See you tomorrow!

“Tomorrow?” Benny repeated, confused. “Tomorrow?!”

Benicia Deluca @VagaBondGirl90
They’ve locked me in @fogmuseum. I wouldn’t even mind, but I haven’t seen anything since the jar of pee.

She ignored the barrage of pings on her phone, various messages of concern and outrage. It was good to give her audience some suspense. She’d probably have a couple dozen new followers by morning. Instead she focussed on her snack, wishing she’d brought a bottle of water, but oh well. She’d find a water fountain or something deeper in.

It was another forty-five minutes before she began to see a glimmer of something ahead. There were faint lights, floating halos in the air—regularly spaced, like lampposts, which was exactly what they turned out to be. They stood above a row of gas pumps, alongside a pair of small buildings, the station office and a small travel center hung with signage for restrooms and vending machines. A pair of cars were parked outside the travel center, old ones, an early model Caravan and that kind of station wagon with the fake wood panelling on the sides. There was even an eighteen-wheeler parked over by the diesel pumps. Nothing moved. This stillness unnerved Benny more than any of the previous emptiness she’d encountered. Serial killers don’t haunt empty plains. They haunt isolated gas stations. She pulled her key chain from her purse, her tiny keyring-can of pepper spray held at the ready.

Benny’s first stop was the travel center—she wasn’t about to miss an opportunity for indoor plumbing—but she entered tentatively, peeking through a window before testing the door. The building was small, just the two bathrooms and a lobby with vending machines, a plaque on a podium at the center of the room, and a wall map of Connecticut highways, dated 1993, too old to be much help even if she were in Connecticut. She called into both bathrooms before entering, and checked for feet under the divider walls. Nothing and nobody. The bathrooms were surprisingly cleanish for a run-down rest stop, and the vending machines were well stocked. From the first, she bought a packet of Nutter Butters, a lemon pie, and some beef jerky. Not the most appetizing meal, but as close to balanced as she could manage. From the second, she bought two bottles of water, stuffed one in her purse, and twisted the top off the second to drink while she read the plaque:

Night driving through heavy fog is especially hazardous. Smart motorists, including even professional cross-country truck drivers, will take the first opportunity to safely exit the highway and wait out limited visibility conditions. Man-made oases like this late 20th century roadside rest stop offer travelers much needed comfort and refreshment.

She snapped a bunch of pics to post later, then moved on to the station office. The door opened into a tiny space with a small desk, chair, and cash register. There was a mini-fridge under the desk— filled to capacity with frozen burritos—and a tiny microwave in the corner. Benny settled herself at the desk to heat and eat a beef and bean supreme. Back outside, the two cars offered nothing of interest, save another mayonnaise jar in the station wagon, empty this time, thankfully. Her next stop was the truck, which she had saved for last precisely because it seemed most promising. Truckers spent days at a time in their rigs, so they treated them like little mobile houses. She might find more food, some useful electronics, even a bed to spend the night in. It was still early for sleeping, but with her only guide gone for the evening, it seemed best to stay put until morning.

The truck was reasonably clean—no one had used it as their home away from home in years. From inside the cab, the fog seemed even more impenetrable for the sharp contrast between seeing and not seeing created by the windshield. The truck’s electronics were useless—all nineties-era stuff, including a four-inch black and white cathode ray television that plugged into the lighter for power, but picked up nothing on its silly little antenna. The CB likewise seemed to work, but no one responded to her calls. Another little fridge offered several Jolt soda bottles, which she saved for morning, when she’d be glad for the caffeine.

She spent the next hour on her phone, responding to students in an online class she was teaching, answering questions about money management software and online services. After that she logged into her banking, where she saw that she’d received payment for an article she’d sold on roadside museums and novelty attractions. It was a nice little lump that she didn’t actually need right now, so she moved it into savings. Finally, she plugged her stick charger into the dashboard lighter and turned her phone off. She locked the doors, then climbed into the rear compartment, where a thin mattress with a scruffy blanket and pillow waited. She pulled the curtains of the sleeping compartment closed, tucked herself down, and began the process of willing herself to sleep—something she’d become very good at while sleeping in odd places at odd times. As she drifted off, she almost—almost—allowed herself to feel a moment of worry over the strange circumstances she found herself in. But then she was asleep, and all worries abated.

* * *

In the morning, she woke to a rising rumble that shook through the entire truck. She wasn’t even sure if it was the noise or the motion that had woken her. Her first thought was of thunder, until the sound was followed by the distinct slap of shoes hitting asphalt—someone had just opened the rear door of the trailer, then jumped out. There had been people back there all night, just feet from where she’d slept.

Benny turned on her phone, although at five in the morning, it was unlikely anyone was on the other end yet. She dashed off a tweet that she was “off to meet the neighbors,” then slipped through the curtains into the driver’s seat. There was nothing to see through the windows, and the mirror was little help—there was movement at the back of the truck, but the fog obscured any details.

Armed with her pepper spray, she opened the door and lowered herself  to the ground as quietly as she could. She moved along the side of the truck slowly, hoping to get a look at her neighbors before they saw her. She could hear them chewing something crunchy, an oddly reassuring sound, immediately familiar: the sounds of breakfast cereal. There were two people, a man and a woman, seated in folding lawn chairs, eating out of bowls. The man spotted her first:

“Dude!” he called, barely intelligible around his mouthful of cereal, giving her a friendly wave with his spoon.

The woman looked up, and immediately smiled: “Hey. Hey! You want some Froot Loops? We’ve got plenty!”

These people were no threat, she decided. The couple were old, forties at least, and dressed in period costume, with ripped jeans and flannel over t-shirts—the guy’s was a band shirt, with some kind of screaming claymation pig. The back of the trailer was outfitted as a makeshift apartment, with a mattress and a chest of drawers, and posters on the walls. The front was something else entirely, with a full drum kit, a keyboard, and an electric guitar on a stand by the wall. It looked like a stage.

“Can you play?” asked the man, who introduced himself as Mikey. “Jennifer’s got drums, and I play keyboards, but we haven’t found anyone for lead guitar yet.”

Benny shook her head.

“That’s too bad. You can still hang with us if you want,” said Mikey. “We’ve got Froot Loops to last forever.”

“What about vocals?” asked Jennifer. “We need a front man even more than guitar.”

“I’m the front man!” said Mikey.

“You can’t sing, Mikey.”

“Can too.”

“Nuh uh. You sound like you got a goat biting your ass when you sing.”

“Yeah, well you just watch me burn the charts, then tell me I can’t sing.”

“It was good to have a bed for the night,” Benny said. “But I think I need to keep moving.”

Benny excused herself to use the restroom, while the two “musicians” bickered over vocals. When she returned to the truck, Jennifer and Mikey told her what they could about the surrounding area, mostly the locations of several more abandoned cars. They also mentioned a directory, northwest of the rest stop, with indicators pointing to other parts of the museum. Due north was the upslope fog exhibit. They’d gone that way once, years ago, but found it impassible; it was a mountain with icy crevices that funneled fog down from the peak. To the west was the Advection Fog exhibit. That one they couldn’t explain—they’d never dared go near it, for fear of what “Advection” might be.

“It sounds nuclear,” said Mikey in awed tones.

Benny Googled it. “It means there’s probably a lake there,” she reported, to dumbfounded stares.

“Once you leave, there’s no finding your way back,” said Jennifer.

“I’ll just set a GPS marker,” said Benny, and did so. “Why don’t you come with me?” she encouraged. “Maybe we can get you out of here, and back into the real world.”

“Nah, we’re good,” said Mikey. “Cereal in the morning, rockin’ out at night. Total freedom, you know?”

Benny took a selfie with them, #stuckinthe90s, then struck out for the directory, to see if it offered any more information. She reached it after only half an hour, finding a tall, rectangular structure with a plaque sporting the museum logo on one side. On the next side was a history of the museum, founded in nineteen-whatever by Dr. John Jacob something or other, blah blah blah. Nothing useful. The third side sported arrows pointing to the next exhibits, exactly as Jennifer had described them, Upslope to the north and Advection to the East. Nothing new there, but confirmation was appreciated.

On the fourth side hung the prize—a rack of informational brochures, with the same boring history, naturally, but more importantly: a map. She could see that she had travelled nearly the entire way through the Radiation Fog exhibit, and was near the boundaries of both the Upslope and Advection exhibits. Beyond Upslope was Evaporation, after which the map indicated an exit. Likewise, Advection was followed by Ice Fog, which also offered an exit. But for all her walking, she was still closer to the entrance than she was to either of the other exits. It made more sense to go back than to go forward.

Her phone vibrated.

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Good morning, Benicia! Did you enjoy the ’90s rest stop preservation exhibit?

“Sure, it worked out. Met a couple of grunge rockers. Have a nice dinner with your folks?”

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Yes! Ever do roll-your-own sushi?

“No, but it sounds fun.”

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 You should try it! But you gotta get tobiko. My dad always forgets the tobiko, but it’s no fun without it.

“That’s the roe, right? The little orange fish sprinkles?”

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Yah! They don’t taste like much, but they make the rice look happy!

“Once I get out of here, I’ll make roll-your-own sushi a priority.”

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 My dad says knowing how to cook for yourself is the first step to independence.

“What’s the second?”

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Job security.

“Hmm. I guess that depends on what you’re looking for independence from.”

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 I see you made it to the directory. Have you picked a direction?

“I’ve ruled out the north. Climbing a mountain in sandals seems like a bad idea. Turning back the way I came would be quickest. So that’s tempting.”

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Yeah, I guess. That makes sense.

“But not that tempting. I’m headed East.”

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Ohhhh, you’re heading for the lake! I love the lake!

“The ice field on the other side sounds rough, but I see there’s a gift shop before the polar wasteland. I’m hoping I can get boots and a coat.”

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Absolutely! Our gift shops offer a wide selection of Fog Museum logo Ts and outerwear.

“Done deal.”

She folded the brochure and stuffed it in her purse, then set out for Advection Lake. Beneath her feet, asphalt gradually gave way to gravel, followed by dirt, then grass, until after two hours, she found her toes squelching into mud. In the fog, she’d very nearly stepped into the lake before she saw it. The water was cold, but rippled slightly, moved by a steady current of air above it. She rolled up the cuffs of her jeans so she could wade a little without getting her clothes wet. She turned south to reach a dock the map showed on the water’s edge. She could follow the lakeshore, which meant she could stow her compass and relax while she enjoyed the chill of the water on her feet.

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 You’re on the shore of Advection Lake! Advection Fog is formed by warm air blowing over cold bodies of water.

When Benny reached the docks, she found exactly what she expected—a touristy rental stand beside a half-dozen moored rowboats. The attendant was asleep in his chair, head lolled back, breathing wetly through the gaping maw in the middle of a scruffy grey beard, a tattered Harlequin romance lying open on his chest.

“Excuse me,” she said, but the man didn’t budge.

“Hello,” she said louder, and knocked hard on the low wooden counter. Still nothing.

“Hey!” she shouted. “I need a boat!”

He finally grunted and lifted his head, looking groggily at Benny.

“How much?” she asked, as she dug in her purse for some cash.

“For a boat? Just a sawbuck. Includes life vests and paddles.”

She passed him the bill, and he passed back two oars and two vests.

“I just need the one,” she said, pushing the extra vest back at him.

“The other’s for your fella,” he said.

“Haven’t got a ‘fella,’ thanks.”

“Your boyfriend, I mean.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t confused by the vocabulary.”

“How’re you gonna row the boat?” he asked.

“With these,” she said, and waggled her arms at him, before grabbing the oars off the counter and tromping off.

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 *Snrk!*

“Oh you liked that, did you?” She was warming to the museum’s Twitter girl, she decided.

The lake was much larger than Benny anticipated. She rowed for hours, ignoring the occasional buzzing in her purse. Eventually, she saw a lighted beacon in the distance, and made for it. The light was atop an iron signpost that stood straight up from the water. She pulled at it, and found that it was sunk immovably into the lakebed, however far down that might be. She unclipped the shoulder strap from her purse, looped it around the sign and through one of the oarlocks, and then clipped the ends together. Her makeshift mooring held solidly enough, so long as the water stayed as calm as it had been thus far.

She stowed the oars in the bottom of the boat before eating more vending machine loot. She removed the life vest, opting to use it as a pillow rather than a life preserver. The boat was unlikely to topple while she was lying down, with her weight relatively low and stable. The air was much colder now, and she regretted the light blouse she’d worn into the museum. But navigating was the biggest issue. She had kept the boat facing due east the entire time, but a southerly wind had pushed the boat perpendicular to her rowing. She had no way of knowing how far she had gone or how far she had left to go. She could be ten feet from the shore right now. Or ten miles. She might not ever get there, she realized. The sign she had moored to warned of the dangers advection fog posed to sailors; how ships would drift aimlessly, crash into unseen rocks, drowning sailors by the hundreds only meters from shore.

Her telephone rang. Not the brief buzz of a Twitter notification, but the prolonged pulse of an incoming call. Of course—it was the fifteenth of the month.

“Hi Dad,” she said into the phone.

“Hey, you’re still alive! Do I hear water?”

“What? Oh, uh, yeah. I’m in a boat. A rowboat.”

“Oh, a rowboat! You know the one about Pete and Re-Pete, right?”

Yes, I know the one about Pete and…”

“They went out in a boat…”

“I know, and Pete fell out…”

“So who was left?”

“Dad…”

“No, I wasn’t even there, Pete told me about it later. But you know who was there?”

Benny sighed, and gave in.

“Re-Pete.”

“So Pete and Re-Pete went out in a boat. Pete fell out. Who was left?”

“Ha ha, Dad, yeah, that’s a good one.”

“Seriously, though, you’re wearing a life jacket, right?”

“Of course!” she said, hastily putting it back on to undo the lie.

“It’s a little late to be out on the water isn’t? It’ll be dark soon.”

“Yeah, I’m about to pack it in. Make camp for the night.”

“Oh, that sounds nice. I’m glad you’re not sleeping in the car.”

“Not tonight.”

“You know, you don’t have to sleep in your car any night. Your bed’s here waiting for you.”

“I know that, Dad.”

“Do you need some money?

“Nah, I just got paid for a couple of articles—I’ll be in beer and pizza for a month.”

“I’m already logged into Paypal.”

“No, really, I’m good.”

“I’m already sending it.”

“Alright, a few extra bucks couldn’t hurt. Thank you.”

“Maybe get you into a hotel for a few nights.”

“Listen, Dad, I should go. I kinda need both hands to row.”

“Going in circles, are you?”

“This whole time, Dad, yeah. Ha ha.”

“Okay, honey, I love you. Have a good night.”

“I love you too.”

She sat in silence for a while, feeling the boat sway beneath her. All around, there was nothing to see save the light atop the signpost.

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 DADS. #amiright

“Dads. Totally.”

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Anyway, I gotta get home. Try not to capsize in your sleep, okay?

“Promise. Hey, give your dad a hug for me, okay?”

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Yeah. I can do that. See you tomorrow.

Benny looked briefly at her navigation app, confirming that the GPS marker for the rest stop was still there. She could still return to that fixed point and go back the easy way. She was tempted. She was also tempted to delete the marker, to take that option away from herself entirely, leaving no way out but forward. She turned the phone off for the night, making no decision yet. She didn’t even tweet her aquatic bedroom—that could wait for morning too. She returned the life vest to the floor of the boat and lay down to sleep.

* * *

In the morning, she neither deleted the marker, nor turned around. As disconcerting as the museum was, the lake was the first true obstacle she had faced. Was she really going to be put off her path so easily? She was not. She downed some ibuprofen from the bottle in her purse, then unmoored and set the oars back in their oarlocks. With arms aching miserably from the previous night’s efforts, and still a good twenty minutes out from feeling the relief of her painkillers, she resumed rowing. After an hour, she realized that the sign had likely marked the halfway point. There was no way she could have done the full length of the lake in one go, so it was good she had stopped. But the realization renewed her determination—she only had to do again what she had already done once. Easy.

Well, not “easy.” But “achievable” at least. It took several hours, and another dose of painkillers, but she got there, feeling the boat slide onto the sand before she had seen any hint that land was before her. With her jeans still rolled up, she stepped out of the boat into the water—an icy shock immediately cramped her feet—and dragged the boat the rest of the way up through the mud. She left her life vest in the boat with the oars.

The cold was much worse on shore. She didn’t think she was quite into ice fog territory, but there was snow on the ground, and thin crusts of ice extending out onto the lake surface. It wasn’t so cold that it would kill her—at least not quickly—but frostbitten toes were a very real possibility. She started back north along the shore at the quickest pace she could maintain, arms wrapped tightly around her body, trying to ignore the snow that invaded her sandals with every step. The pain of the cold passed quickly enough—by the time half an hour had passed, she no longer felt anything in her feet at all.

“Well,” she said, unsteadily, through chattering teeth, “I have officially made a mistake.” Her phone immediately buzzed.

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Don’t give up now! You’re just minutes from commemorative keepsake ornaments and a convenient snack bar!

“I’d love a hot coffee.”

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 We have @Starbucks!

“Of course you do.”

Starbucks Coffee @Starbucks
@VagaBondGirl90 Starbucks is proud to sponsor @fogmuseum and other fine educational and cultural institutions!

Starbucks Coffee @Starbucks
@VagaBondGirl90 Use this e-coupon for a free small hot coffee, only at @fogmuseum! http://ow.ly/KZxIY

Benny kept pushing. She could see something above her—had been seeing it for a while, gradually coming clearer. A blip of light high up in the sky. It was a lighthouse. If not for the wind blowing her southward, she’d have rowed right to it. So, she had a beacon to follow, but of course it wasn’t as close as it seemed. It was another twenty minutes before she felt the ground beneath the snow change from frozen mud to pavement, which led eventually to the building’s entrance. Which was locked, of course. The lighthouse itself was off limits, a historical piece to be seen, but not entered. The gift shop sat beside it, well-lit and welcoming. Benny walked the extra fifteen feet to the revolving glass door.

The wonderful rush of warmth quickly became unpleasant as the burning sensation of skin thawing settled into her feet and fingers. Her first stop was the restroom, where she ran her digits under cool water to help them acclimate to normal temperatures. From there, she went straight to the Starbuck’s kiosk for a venti skim toffee-nut latte. At the snack bar, she bought a cheeseburger and fries from a bored teen in a Fog Museum polo shirt. It was the first hot meal Benny had eaten since the microwave burrito two nights earlier. She was halfway through her meal when her phone pinged.

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Can I ask you a question?

“Sure.”

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Are you homeless?

“I’m…nomadic.”

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 What’s the difference?

“Choice.”

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Your dad sounded worried about you on the phone last night.

“Yeah, that’s how dads sound.”

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 How do you deal with that?

Benny sighed. She had an answer, of course, but not one she especially liked. “Sometimes you just have to let them worry.”

After her meal, Benny pulled out her map. The first, most important point to note was that the map was not to scale. The lake had taken much longer to cross than its dimensions on paper suggested it should have. The ice fog exhibit might be similarly underrepresented. It wasn’t enough to buy a sweatshirt—she needed equipment for a good, long hike in the cold. At the gift shop she procured a heavy coat, gloves, socks and boots, leggings, a hat, and even a pair of snowshoes. She hated to drop so much of her money on gear she was only going to need once, but this wasn’t the time for frugality. And anyway, her dad had plonked an extra $300 into her bank account overnight. She took her purchases to the ladies’ room and put everything on, two pairs of thick socks, a fur-lined hood over a wool hat, goggles, and a scarf wrapped several layers around her face. When she was fully transformed, she snapped a photo of herself in the mirror.

Benicia Deluca @VagaBondGirl90
I’m ready to slay a f***ing dragon! #GearedUp!

She felt powerful and protected, and also actually, honestly terrified. Like that first day when she’d packed her things into her trunk, and driven off into America.

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Dragons aren’t real, silly! Watch out for polar bears, though. #notkidding

Right. She waved goodbye to the barista and the shop clerk and the burger girl. None of them waved back. She returned to the damp cold of the lake shore, checked her compass and started off for the antarctic base camp. The cold came on quickly. The temperatures near the water had been merely freezing; as she moved further west, she found a whole new world of cold. She was glad for the snowshoes. She couldn’t tell how deep the snow went, but sinking would have slowed her down regardless. Not that she could run, exactly, with the broad paddles strapped to her feet, but at least she wasn’t struggling to pluck her feet from the snow with every step.

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 You are now in Ice Fog Expanse—our least-visited region! Ice fog is made of frozen vapor. You are literally breathing ice!

“That’s not as exciting as you think.”

Benny kept moving, pausing as rarely as possible. She knew slowing down was bad. Stopping would be lethal. She felt the cold despite her many layers of protection. Her legs, where she wore the thinnest layers, felt chilled clear through. She occasionally slapped at her thighs to encourage circulation. It didn’t help, but it was satisfying to know that she could still feel the pain and the tingling warmth that spidered out from it. She walked for hours. She couldn’t drink anything—her water had frozen solid, an obvious problem that she couldn’t believe she hadn’t anticipated. She had slipped a strip of beef jerky down into her bra to thaw—the shock of it against her skin had been almost enough to send her into seizures right then, but it was the only way she could soften it enough to eat. The past few days had done absolutely nothing to diminish her lifelong dislike for beef jerky, but she needed the calories, and the calories helped.

She should have stayed the night in the gift shop, then started fresh in the morning. Maybe claimed her free small coffee. She was about to say as much to her Twitter followers, but her attention was stolen by the sound of quacking. Or not quacking exactly, but kind of like that. Some weirdly throaty bird noise that bore no resemblance to song. She soon found herself in the midst of their swarming mass, and grinned as they meandered around her legs, bumping against her, disinterested in her passing. She thought to try petting them, but didn’t dare take off her glove. Instead, she snapped a photo, straight down, capturing her own knees in their midst.

Benicia Deluca @VagaBondGirl90
Probably going to die. But look: #Penguins!

Benicia Deluca @VagaBondGirl90
If you don’t hear from me again, feel free to put that last tweet on my tombstone.

Her post was followed by a string of responses questioning her senses. She knew she deserved it. Why had she been in such a hurry? She couldn’t even have offered an excuse that made sense. If she said she was just eager to be out of this place, feeling trapped or lost or frightened, anyone could have understood that. But none of that was true. Oh, there were moments of it, sure, but she’d just rowed herself across an entire lake, and was caught up in the spirit of being awesome. She’d done that! And now she wanted to slay a fucking dragon! Or a polar bear. Or whatever. And she’d run off into the cold to do that too. More hours passed. She was frozen and exhausted and almost certainly going to die. Of being frozen. In a museum. For real. She felt herself drifting toward sleep, even as she kept moving. Her tweet about penguins might actually end up on her tombstone, she realized. That was kind of a consolation; she’d always hoped that her dying comment would be something bravely flippant.

Her mulling over her epitaph had been running through her mind for several minutes before she realized she wasn’t walking anymore. Wasn’t standing up. She was lying flat on her face in the snow, and couldn’t recall how long ago she’d fallen there. She couldn’t feel her face, or anything else, save an insistent thrum against her thigh, coming at regular intervals, over and over. It was that vibration that had broken her reverie, woken her from her lethal sleep. Automatically, she reached into coat pocket and pulled out the phone, and there was a string of tweets:

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Hey, get up!

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Wake up!

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Benicia, wake up!

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Please wake up!!!

And so on for twenty, thirty tweets. The intern hadn’t stopped buzzing her until she’d gotten through.

“I’m up,” said Benny.

And she pulled herself up.

And she started walking.

Again.

She made it to the base camp. Numb and hobbling. But she made it.

The camp was little more than a trailer surrounded by additional gear and storage. There was a light in the window. She hoped whoever lived there was welcoming. And alive. Unable to lift her arms, she knocked on the door with her shoulder, banging clumsily. This prompted an immediate startled clatter from inside. That was fair, she supposed—they probably didn’t receive visitors very often. When the door finally opened, it revealed an old woman with scraggly gray hair tied into a clump behind her head. She was wrapped in a thick, brown, cigarette-pocked robe that looked almost as old as the woman, worn over a tank top and pink boxer shorts.

Benny didn’t say anything. She couldn’t move her jaw.

“If you’re coming in,” the woman barked, “come in fast and shut the damn door behind you.”

Benny tried to do as she was told, but couldn’t manage the steps. The woman eventually took pity, and hefted Benny up the steps by her armpits, like she was picking up a toddler.

Inside, she helped Benny strip off her layers to give the trailer’s warmth direct access to her skin. Her body tingled with the sensation of a thousand bee stings as it reacclimated to room temperature.

“Thank you,” said Benny, once she had warmed enough to speak again. “It’s such a relief to get out of the cold.”

“Better get used to that,” said the woman. “We’ve got a lot of it.”

The woman took a seat in an undersized desk chair by the computer, ignoring Benny entirely for a good half hour, while Benny revived and casually looked around the room. The trailer itself was a well-organized disaster—piles of unwashed dishes and discarded containers confined to the kitchen area, mounds of clothes circling the single bed. Books and papers demarcated the woman’s workspace, a desk sporting an old PC and dot-matrix printer, among other technical paraphernalia, various scanners and what looked like an old-fashioned GPS monitor. The whole space reeked of cigarettes, and indeed, the woman was lighting one now.

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Are you okay?

Benicia Deluca @VagaBondGirl90
@Fogmuseum I am now. I owe you one.

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 You really scared me.

Benicia Deluca @VagaBondGirl90
@Fogmuseum I really scared myself.

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 It’s my fault. I didn’t warn you how bad it would be. I was too excited. I didn’t think anything could stop you.

Benicia Deluca @VagaBondGirl90
@Fogmuseum Hey, no. I took my own risks. And I made it. It was close, but here I am.

“There’s water in the fridge,” said the woman, after some time had passed. “And a bag of pork rinds on the counter, if you’re hungry.”

Benny looked longingly at the bowl of fresh fruit that sat beside the pork rinds, but helped herself only to what had been offered. No sense testing the bounds of the woman’s hospitality.

“Well, let me tell you a little about what we do here, while you’re still getting warmed up.”

Benny nodded agreeably and crunched a pork rind.

“I’m Dr. Denise Fülnkholme, director of simul-Antarctic research. As I’m sure you know, we’ve been studying native simul-Antarctic fauna in their natural habitat of the simul-Antarctic tundra since the museum was founded in 1972. I’ve been here since the beginning, originally as chief research assistant under the founding director, Dr. Bill Wurlitzer-Evans, god rest his miserable soul, taking over as director myself after the unfortunate simul-orca incident in 1989.” She paused to take a drag on her cigarette. “We’ve improved safety protocols tremendously since then. Let me just throw that out there, dispel some of the concerns you very reasonably must have about such things. No more simul-orca incidents for us.”

Benny swallowed her pork rind.

“Uh…it’s nice to meet you Dr. Fülnkholme,” said Benny. “I’m Benny.”

“So why don’t you start by telling me about your education.”

“Uh…sure,” said Benny. “I dual-majored in Business and Communications.”

“No scientific background?”

“I watch a lot of Discovery channel. Speaking, of I was told there are polar bears.”

“That’s right.”

“But you just said this is the antarctic. There are no polar bears in the antarctic. The word literally means ‘no bears.’”

“Not the antarctic. The simul-antarctic. The “simul-” is key.”

“Okay, sure.”

“Tell me more about your communications experience.”

“I’ve published some personal finance pieces, but mostly I’m interested in travel writing.”

“Well, I have to tell you, I’m conflicted. I’m reluctant to hire someone without a scientific background, but the truth is, there just aren’t many applicants, and it sounds like you could take the grant writing and external communications off my hands. I think a three-month probationary employment might be worth a go.”

“So that’s three months of hanging out in an Antarctic base camp, playing with penguins?”

“We don’t play with the penguins,” said the scientist, before letting a small smile escape. “We conduct interactive studies.”

“Room and board included?”

“You’d live here. Supplies are provided.”

“Can I get direct deposit?”

Dr. Fülnkholme looked confused, but Benny’s phone chimed almost immediately.

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 I can set that up!

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 You should do it!

“Three months?” Benny repeated.

“Probationary.”

She thought about it for a moment. Short term contract, and a chance to develop her skills in grant writing and wilderness survival?

“Done deal,” said Benny, and shook Dr. Fülnkholme’s hand.

* * *

“I do wish I’d gotten to see a polar bear,” she lamented, after the three months had come to an end.

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Don’t go! You still could!

“I’m very happy with your work,” said Dr. Fülnkholme. “I’ve decided to offer you the full 30-year contract. You just need to sign.”

“Thirty years! That is an awfully long commitment.”

“You don’t get to be the best in your field by spreading yourself thin.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Dr. Fülnkholme, I’ve had a blast working here. But it’s time for me to head west. There’s an exit out that way.”

“You won’t make it on your own.”

“Maybe I won’t. I’ve got a map, though, and I’d really like to try.”

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 The penguins will miss you, Benny.

“The penguins will get by.”

Benny set out with her map,  gear, and snowshoes, as well as a fleece-lined pair of pants. She was better prepared for this outing than her previous, but the cold was no less brutal, the fog no less blinding. She followed her compass due west. Three hours’ travel brought her to the first exhibit she’d seen since leaving the research station—an abandoned sleeping bag, unrolled on the ground, with no other signs of life. It looked very old, decades old. She snapped a photo, #RIP.

Her phone buzzed.

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 You could still go back. It’s not too late to take the contract.

“I’ve already got what I needed out of this. It’s time for the next thing.”

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 You found another job already?

“I’ve had other jobs all along.”

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 My dad says you have to be realistic. He says you don’t need to be in love with your job.

“I’m not in love with my job. I don’t teach classes in personal finance for jollies. I’m not even that crazy about travel writing. But it keeps me traveling, you know? It’s the option I can live with.”

It was another half hour before Benny began to hear the sound of breathing behind her. A sort of snuffing, heavy and low, as of something large. A crunching trudge accompanied it, the sounds of feet in snow, feet much larger than Benny’s.

“I’m almost there,” she said eventually. It wasn’t a question.

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 The exit is just ahead, if that’s really what you want.

And indeed, there appeared to be a hovering pink bit in the haze ahead—it would soon reconcile itself into a glowing “exit” sign. Just a few feet further.

“My mind’s made up.”

She could hear the steps growing louder, the breath growing louder. Something was coming close behind her. She wasn’t going to run. Running would be a mistake. Instead, she pulled her keys from her purse.

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 You owe me one. Remember?

“Sure,” said Benny. “You can still talk to me, you know. You know how to reach me.” The thing behind her was grunting now as it snuffled in the snow. Was it tracking her, lifting her scent from the ice she had disturbed? It was too close. She turned to look, and saw nothing. No, almost nothing; there was a single blemish on the otherwise perfect blankness of the fog, a dark spot hovering in the air, moving up and down, searching. She snapped a photo, but even that one feature disappeared in the flash, leaving only a soft white image of nothing, #polarbearinasnowstorm. The animal grunted again in response to the flash, and she held out her pepper spray, ready to take the only desperate action available to her.

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 I’m not supposed to. I’m just supposed to be the museum. I get in trouble when I break character.

She heard more grunts, but farther off—another bear in another place. A more protracted guttural roar followed. The dark spot of the closer bear’s nose jumped to attention at the sound—it vacillated between the prey it had been stalking and the call of its own kind. Benny hoped it was mating season. She had wanted to see a polar bear, but just the nose was plenty, she decided now. She was gripping the pepper spray too tightly—a fine mist escaped the can, blending invisibly into the fog.

“So don’t break character,” said Benny. “Just follow me from your own account.”

The more distant bear called again, and this time the one before her made no attempt to resist. The nose darted away, followed by the quieting sounds of the bear’s bulk barreling across the snow. She let out her breath and released her grip on the pepper spray. On her next breath, her throat stung slightly, as the residue of pepper spray wafted back in her direction. Her eyes as well. She turned away from it, back to her path. There was the light, just a short distance ahead. It was right in front of her.

Benicia Deluca @VagaBondGirl90
Now exiting @fogmuseum—highly recommended! (But bring your serious walking shoes.)

The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
@VagaBondGirl90 Thank you! And don’t forget to rate us on Yelp!

Benny pulled the door open and stepped out of the fog.

The lobby was exactly as she remembered it, though she was coming to it from a different angle through an unmarked and opaque door. She also saw Carlos, still standing at attention.

“Hey, Tinkles!” he shouted to her from his post. “You’re letting the exhibit out! Shut the door! ”

After stomping the snow from her boots she made straight for the restroom, across the lobby, pausing only to flip Carlos the bird and a smile. Then she exited the museum and circled around the building to the parking lot, where her car still waited. She hoped the battery would start after three months of disuse, but if not, that was solvable. Nothing to worry about. She popped the trunk, began stripping off layers—coat, scarf, sweater, boots—until she felt the summer heat bleeding up into her bare feet from the asphalt.

Her phone buzzed. She had a new follower on Twitter. She smiled, and followed back. Then she silenced the phone and put it away.

© 2019 Alexander Danner

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Alexander Danner is co-creator of the slipstream audio drama podcast Greater Boston, sound designer for the psychedelic noir audio drama podcast What’s the Frequency?, and has contributed as a guest writer to various other fiction podcasts, including Our Fair City, arsParadoxica, and StarTripper!! His fiction has appeared in Event: Poetry and Prose, The Saturday Evening Post, and the anthologies Machine of Death and The Girl at the End of the World, among others. He has also co-authored two textbooks on the craft and history of comics and graphic novels, and he teaches writing at The Institute for Art and Design at New England College.