As he unzipped the tent flap and the late morning sunshine bounced off the puddles, he yawned and reached for his phone. It picked up the festival’s cell tower. He couldn’t be bothered jumping through the hoops to get out onto the main networks so just read the message from people in The Field. He stood and stretched, looked through the screen at the shortest path to the toilets. He turned the phone right: a tent became a vegan, fusion breakfast stall. He turned left. Ah, there it is, a golden path overlaid on the mud. The Dealer was open.