I look under each of the couches and pull all the cushions off, to make sure the key didn’t fall (or get stuffed) between them. I briefly consider cutting open the cushions, but I don’t have a knife, so that’d be difficult. All I’ve got are my keys, and, well, I don’t think it’s worth the effort.

I’m in a room; everything is bright white. Not that there’s much there. Walls, a sofa…I do eventually spot a door off to the right.

Do I still remember who I am? Yes. It’s not amnesia, at least.

A voice blares from the loudspeaker hidden near the ceiling. “That’s not what it means to do a white room writing exercise, Cloud.”