MirrorWorld

I feel like I’m in some sort of strange dream, and peek into the room, which is more than a room. It’s an apartment. From the doorway, I can see a kitchenette, living room, and dining area. The furnishing is comfortable. The brushed metal appliances are modern. The décor is casual, almost primitive, with wooden carvings and emotionally charged, modern oil paintings.

I step inside.

I’m drawn inside.

Immediate comfort washes over me. My muscles relax. “How did you do it?”

“What?” she asks.

I motion to the apartment. “This. I don’t think I could have told you what I would like in an apartment, but … this is it. Every detail feels … right. Like home.”

“I’m not an interior decorator,” she says.

A painting in the living room attracts my attention. It’s a two-foot square of color — thick dabs of red radiate out from the middle to orange, yellow, and a hint of green around the fringe.

“How does it make you feel?” Allenby asks.

“I thought you were a medical doctor.”

She steps up beside me, eyes on the painting. “I’m not evaluating you.”

“Yes you are,” I say. “How does it make you feel?”

“Melancholy.” She turns away and heads back toward the door.

“Well, it makes me hungry.” I turn toward the kitchen, which is separated from the living room by an island. I open the fridge and find it fully stocked. Most of it looks healthy, but hiding in the door, among the brand-new bottles of condiments and cups of chocolate pudding, is a Snickers bar and a can of Cherry Pepsi.

My mouth salivates and both hands reach out, claiming the prizes. The wrapper comes off faster than a male stripper’s pants. I take a bite and moan with pleasure. I haven’t had something this sweet since … well, I can’t remember. While taking a second bite, I pop the soda top with one hand and, before swallowing the mash of chocolate, caramel, peanuts, and nougat in my mouth, drain half the can.

“You clearly don’t fear diabetes, either,” Allenby says.

I raise the can as though giving a toast. “Or sugar lows.” Three more bites, two drinks, and sixty-five grams of sugar later, my meal is done.

“Ready to go?” Allenby asks.

I take a step to follow her. “Actually…” I look around the room and realize that I’m not turning my head. The room is spinning. I grip the island to keep from falling over.

“Whoa there,” Allenby says. I feel her holding my arms, steadying me. “Let’s get you to the couch.”

I let her guide me. The couch is just fifteen feet away, but it feels like I’m walking through knee-deep mud to reach it.

“Okay,” she says, guiding me down. “Slowly. Slowly.”

I fall from her grasp, but the couch catches me. I try to open my eyes but lack the strength. Allenby places her fingers against my neck, checking my pulse. With a sigh, she stands back up and says, “He’s out.”

A door opens and a new voice, deep and masculine, asks, “What did it, the candy or soda?”

“Both, actually,” Allenby says. “He’s going to be unconscious for a long time.”

And then, I am.

8

I’m paralyzed.

But I can hear. And smell. And feel.

The soft cotton against my skin reveals a sheet. The weight of a blanket rests atop it. I can feel the sheet on my chest, my stomach, and legs, but not my midsection. I’m dressed in boxers. There is a tightness around my wrists. Restraints.

Poor Allenby. I had begun to like her.

A heart monitor beeping out a steady beat echoes sharply. I’m in a small room, full of hard objects. I picture it in my mind. Some kind of examination / hospital room. Cabinets along the walls. A sink maybe. No chairs. Nothing soft aside from the blankets. The temperature on my skin is even, so there are no windows. Or the shades are pulled. Or it’s night.

The smell is antiseptic. Sterile. Like SafeHaven, but with less bleach and more … what is that? Thyme and clove? Strange. But there’s something else in the air. Old Spice. Rose soap. A man and a woman. The man smells new, but the woman is Allenby. The rose scent was fainter on her before, but she must have taken a shower.

I can hear them breathing now that I know they’re there. But what are they doing?

Watching me, I decide. Or listening to the heart monitor. Trying to decide if I’m awake. Too bad for them: my heart rate, at rest, is rock-solid. Anyone else waking up to this situation would panic. A spike in the heart rate would reveal consciousness.

“He’s still out,” Allenby eventually says.

“He did consume both sedatives,” the man says. He sounds older. Sixties, maybe.

“Will he be okay?” Allenby’s earnest-sounding concern for my welfare is intriguing.

“The drugs will wear off soon enough,” the man says. “He’ll be fine. You know he’s tough.”

“It’s not his body I’m worried about. Did the MRI reveal anything? Is the damage reversible?”

“His memories are not our primary concern. Honestly, I think we’ll all be better if he doesn’t remember.”

“He might not comply without them,” Allenby says. “He might run again.” Again? “He already threatened as much.”