A woman sits on her bedroom floor. She turns a single disc titled "Turn the Wheel" over and over again in her hands. She does this methodically and with exceeding care, as though she is greeting an old friend. After some time, the woman plugs the game into her old PS3 console, sits crisscross in front of the old TV, and starts up her old remote. Another remote, which has old not been used for over 10 years, watches quietly from its home on the woman's nightstand.

On the homemade case of Turn the Wheel rests an old sticky note: "Ready player 2? All yours, M."

---

A wooden wheel stands 10 feet in front of you. Its existence is defiantly contradictory in what is otherwise a stereotypical family room, furnished with a fireplace, a TV, a couch, and a coffee table. It is bolted stubbornly to the ground, as if to express that it is, despite what logic should dictate, very much where it is supposed to be.

Walking up, you lightly jostle the handle and find that the wheel can turn both directions, though you keep from moving the wheel further, for fear that something might happen.

What do you do?

The woman runs her finger across the remote carefully, as though she's afraid it will crumble to dust in her hands. She moves the joystick up and down experimentally, scrolling through the list of options. As she does, the game plays the sound of the wheel turning through its low-quality speakers, well-oiled wood sounding more like pixelated rags rubbing together.

She looks down at the sticky note and smiles. Then, without hesitation, she selects A.

---

You turn the wheel 360 degrees to the left. There is no visible change, but you feel a strange sensation, a prickling in your inner ear as if you are now facing a different direction than before. The living room has shifted, though you did not feel it move.

Outside in the hall, you suddenly hear noise: someone in the kitchen making breakfast. You smell bacon frying, though you're sure you ate the last of the bacon yesterday. Someone is inside your house.

What do you do?