A woman drives into a petrol station in a car. I watch as a heavy bar slides out from the back, covering the vehicle. The woman gets out and tries to throw the car keys onto a roof. I call out to her to give me the keys instead. She walks over, hands me the keys and an envelope containing handwritten parchment paper. Then she disappears—and so does the car. I walk down a street, somehow knowing the car must be nearby. I press the key, and the indicators flash. The car is inside a garage. It’s very large, and a group of men are talking in French and Flemish. A policeman is holding a photo of me—in it, my hair is very short. I wonder whether I should tell the truth. The policeman urges me to do so. I walk around the car, looking for the heavy steel bar that had covered it. Instinctively, I know what to do. I dig into the mud beneath the car, which smells of seawater. I uncover the steel frame, then get into the car. Suddenly, I find myself inside a vast room, like a light brown skeleton. Beyond it, there’s another enormous space where a few helicopters are landing.