There is a trailer park in Crowfoot, or was the last time I was there. Should it remain in whatever year you’re reading this, go there. Close your eyes and begin to walk. Let your mind wander. Concentration is anathema. You will feel something sliding into your mind, coiling around your thoughts. Let it. It will begin to guide your feet and, before too long, you will find yourself in front of a trailer. It will be, regardless of what time it was when you arrived, dusk. Enter the trailer.
The inside will be surprisingly dingy. The faux wood paneling, shag carpet and off-putting smell of age will lend the room a particular feeling of datedness and discomfort. A man dressed in a black suit with blue piping will be sitting on the couch. He will look entirely incongruous, with a sharp haircut and sophisticated demeanour. He will be watching the television, but the programs will be highly unfamiliar. The language impenetrable. The man will seem nonplussed by your presence and offer you something to drink. Accept. The worst fairy food will do is vanish when you leave.
After a time, he will ask you a question about the secret history. Some minute detail that seems significant when you’re living it but in retrospect seems only the debris of other people’s lives. Tell him what he wants to know, and he’ll nod with approval. You will be allowed to spend the night and crash on his couch. Your dreams in the trailer will be long and strange. When you awaken, you will remember nothing, but over the next week everything you must do will seem intuitive and easy, as if you have done it before.
Should you fail to answer his question, his expression will grow dire, and you will find yourself unable to speak for the remainder of your days.