The Night Market assembles itself at the edge of sleep. You know this because you can feel the seams — the places where one vendor's reality meets another, stitched together with intention and old rope.

You're here because three days ago you woke and no one could say your name. Not wouldn't — couldn't. It slides off their tongues like water off glass. Your mother called you "dear" with a look of panic she tried to hide. Your mail arrived blank.

Someone brought your name here, to the market where everything has a price. You intend to buy it back.

The market stretches in every direction, lanterns bobbing in a windless dark.