Jill stepped over a pile of leaves, the bag of screenplays slung over her shoulder, and climbed the stairs to her apartment. After fiddling with her keys a bit, she unlatched the door with a satisfying click and stepped inside. It was precisely at this point that she should not have glanced backward over her shoulder.

She glanced backward over her shoulder.

Pure black emptiness. No sign of the autumn-clad street she had just left, but a void in its place, beginning at her doorstep and stretching out into the featureless expanse, as if the universe outside had flickered out of existence.

Huh, she thought. She stared into the void and it returned her stare. She stuck a hand outside, watched it disappear from view, clipped by the doorway-plane. She felt nothing.

What the fuck, she thought.

Nothing about this in my job description, she thought.

Then she stepped back out, into the void.