In the forest, Ilsa had been assaulted by color. The trees with their deep, rich brown trunks, the intense green of the leaves, and the incredible variety of colors for the flowers. As stunning as all that color had been, it had pressed down on Ilsa. But this other landscape wasn't much better.

Now what? she wondered. The path continued to the right along the trees. As much as she was starting to question the safety of the forest, it certainly looked better than the wasteland. And the path didn't even go that way. She resumed walking, a little more slowly now. While she hadn't felt particularly at ease in the forest, at least it was better in there than next to the harshness on her left. She refused to look toward the wasteland and instead studied the forest on her right. Here on the edge she saw saplings of all sizes. Some extended higher than the roof of her old home. Others were shorter than she. All of these young trees looked sick. Most of them didn't have any blooms on their branches, and on the few that did, those flowers were small and shriveled. The colors were faded, almost colorless. They were dying, realized Ilsa.

"The trees do not like being this close to the Nothing," said a voice.