Nicole's cabin is small and unspectacular. There is nothing on the walls to cover the holes, no carpets on the floors to hide the stains of age, no curtains to block out sunlight. The furniture is drab. It is a depressing space to be in. Every inhale is filled with stale air. Nothing about this place is inspiring—even the smell of peach-ginger tea does nothing to make it feel a little cozier. It's not that the cabin is dirty, it's that it is unwelcoming. I feel like I have interrupted a balance that is fragile and antique.
A splash of color is first introduced through the muted orange liquid in our cups; the map pours color onto the kitchen table once it is unfolded. I imagine this is what audiences must have felt like watching the first color movie ever made. Nicole sucks in a sharp brea
