In any case, regardless of the actual meta- or possibly ultraphysics of the situation, the universe had hard-reset while my back was turned, at least from the critically flawed perspective of my own senses. That hard reset had completely nullified my prior context and coordinates, effectively dislodging me from what the Myconet had considered the frayed edge. However, I had still existed, so I’d had to go somewhere.
The sewer was just as slimy and stinky as I remembered it being, but its stinky sliminess was almost pleasant after the corpse-filled interchronological death-bog I’d been bouncing back and forth through for the past inapplicable-time-period. It was dark, but I had a torch in my hand. Not the torch I’d purchased from the department store and which was in all likelihood now back on a shelf therein although I couldn’t be certain of that, but the torch I’d been holding the first time we came down to the old Barnsley Yard site, which I had then taken home and regrettably left there. Or would now take home and leave there, regrettably or otherwise … or, more likely, put in my pocket and not leave at home, just in case I needed it again in this timeline and couldn’t afford a new one from the department store.
 I wondered if this meant the money I’d paid for it was also back, or if my slightly-less-money-having pants had come with me to this reboot of the space-time wossname, along with the caked-on mud that may or may not have had any current right to exist. I decided that the money I’d paid for the neon flashlight and batteries simply wasn’t worth losing my sanity or the fabric of the aforementioned wossname over, so I didn’t bother checking.
 This is another reason I didn’t bother checking.
There were dank old wooden supports along one side of the chamber we were standing in, and an algae-sheened old table slumped against the sludgy wall of the ‑
I glanced to my left, and saw Creepy picking boredly at the nearest support beam.