On the flat, treeless outskirts of Sherwood Forest Fun Park, adults and children wait in an endless line under a stinging sun to board the small shuttle bus. I collect signatures, hyperventilate, discover what it’s like to be a thing, and, in-between my assigned tasks, smoke weed. Some higher-up would probably declare this an emergency. There are voices within hands, answers without questions. The word I enter in the search engine isn’t in the dictionary. And so the day transforms, as all workdays should, with the slow-motion advent of white puffy clouds, an orchestra of swans.