"That's one word for it," Greta mutters. She can't help wondering just how much traveling the cat's used to. There are certainly others in Manhattan who are accustomed to wandering much farther afield than the Woods, or the next village over. None of them, to her knowledge, find being trapped on a comparatively small island 'interesting.' It chafes, even for her.

And, she thinks with a pang of bitterness and lingering sorrow, it's not as if she has anyplace else to go.

"The dreams aren't so hard to escape," she says with a flippancy that belies how awful her own deliberate waking was. "You just have to die."