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Paul’s explored the field; talked to the man leaning with one foot up against the tree, black cowboy hat tipped down to obscure his face; and sat at the little wooden table with its single apple. He’s sitting in the dirt, elbows on his knees and his face in his palms.

“Where am I?” he asks the cowboy again. The cowboy gives a gruff scoff and crosses his arms over his chest, but says nothing.

It’s hard to know how much time has gone by, because time is showing no clues of passing. Paul’s body aches and itches for sleep. He feels slightly grimy, especially on his chest and the back of his neck. He thinks it’s maybe been a week.

This isn’t possible, he thinks, tugging on the hair he’s threaded through his fingers. This isn’t possible. Am I dreaming? Am I dead?

“Dead men don’t think,” the cowboy casually interjects.

“Stay out of my thoughts!” Paul yells, then groans. Getting up from the dirt, he moves to sit at the table and puts his face flush against the wood. Everything has a quality of flatness to it — he can touch the tree and the table, the apple and the farmhouse, but their shadows don’t move with his perspective. After a while the field just ends in a flat wall of the landscape. Paul walked straight into it on his first day, and it’s the secondary reason he believes he’s stuck in a painting. The primary reason is that he tried biting into the apple when he first arrived and found that it tasted of paint.

“What do you know about psychosis?” he asks the cowboy, who doesn’t respond.

This isn’t possible. It’s not possible to get stuck in a painting, Paul thinks. He looks over at the cowboy, and then continues out loud. “Psychosis is a serious illness. If I’m having an episode, I need immediate medical attention.”

Were I having a psychotic episode, would I be self-aware enough to realize that’s what it was? he wonders. Isn’t it a defining characteristic of psychotic episodes to think the hallucinations are real?

Paul picks up the apple and considers it; its shadow remains on the table. A shiver runs through the man and he places the fruit back down. I must be hallucinating. I have to be. None of this is real.

The cowboy scoffs again. Paul pinches himself hard. Pain blooms on the back of his forearm, and two crescent-shaped marks are left indented in his skin when he pulls his hand away.

“Crazy enough to eat the devil with horns on,” the cowboy says.

He’s just a hallucination. This whole thing is just a hallucination. Paul closes his eyes. I’m sick. I’m sick and this is an episode and it will go away. I just have to wait for it to go away.

Paul tries to ignore the cowboy’s laughter but feels his hands clench and his cheeks go hot despite himself. “What’s so funny?”

The cowboy is leaning against the tree still, hands crossed over his chest, the flat of one boot pressing into the bark. Paul gets up and goes over to him, repeating his question.

The hair at the back of Paul’s neck prickles. The air is still and flat. The cowboy chuckles. Paul lets out a guttural scream and jerks his clenched fists down by his side. “Look at me!” he shouts. “Stop just standing there! Help me! Talk to me! Stop laughing and taunting me. Help me!” He reaches out and knocks his hand against the side of the cowboy hat, sending it spiraling down to the ground.

Paul stares at the cowboy, who stares back with Paul’s own face. After a moment, the cowboy reaches down to retrieve his hat and dusts the dirt from it, placing it back on his head. “Ain’t no help here,” he says.