The acrid scent hit me like a fist, punching the breath from my lungs. My stride faltered, shifting into a jog. The deer grew heavier on my back, weighing me down.
Something was wrong.
I flung the carcass to the ground and ran.
Flames licked the sky as my house came into view, black smoke curling like a serpent into the somber gray heavens. Screams pierced the air.
Four figures stumbled from the inferno, engulfed in fire.
A sound tore from my throat, raw and broken.
My children fell, one by one.
My wife, her beautiful hair now devoured by flames, tried to lift them, but her body was already collapsing.
I ran harder. Faster. But the quicker I ran, the farther away they seemed.
Arms outstretched, I reached for them—and fell.
Darkness swallowed me whole, dragging me into a chasm of oblivion, my family’s screams echoing in my ears.
I hit the ground hard. The impact knocked the air from my lungs.
For a moment, I thought I was dead and that I had finally joined them.
Then, a shadow loomed over me. A face hovered above mine.
And I knew—this nightmare was far from over.
I jolted awake, back in the strange bed in this unfamiliar room.
A strangled yell tore from my throat as I lashed out, shoving the stranger away.
The man stumbled, his arms pinwheeling before he caught his balance. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, there, son. I’m a friend, remember?”
I pushed myself up; the bed beneath me was too soft and clean—it smelled of lavender and soap, foreign scents that didn’t belong to me.
The man stood before me, studying me almost amusedly. He was older, with thinning gray hair and round spectacles perched on his nose. His clothes were unlike anything I’d ever seen—a loose, garish shirt patterned with flowers and strange musical instruments paired with pants that sagged awkwardly from his hips.
My gaze flicked behind him. The people in the glowing wall box were gone.
“Is my music too loud?” he asked, propping his hands on his hips. “I usually listen to the classics—Bach, Beethoven, and the greats. Sometimes, I go for jazz. Miles Davis, John Coltrane… those guys stir the soul.”
He exhaled, shaking his head. “But today, I needed a mood boost, so I flipped on some ’70s tunes. Those old rockers could belt out a song.”
’70s tunes? Old rockers? Did he mean rocking chairs? And jazz—what in the devil’s name was that?
The man squinted at me. “Am I talking too fast? Or is it the Hawaiian shirt? Maybe too colorful? I usually don’t wear this kind of thing, but I figured I’d switch it up for a change.”
He cocked his head like a curious bird. “Cat got your tongue? You were in bad shape when you arrived. I’ve been tending to your wounds for a couple of weeks. Thought you were a goner for a while there.” He let out a small chuckle. “Glad to see you’re still here.”
Weeks.
I swallowed hard and yanked back the pristine white bedding.
My body was no longer my own.
Pink scars and fresh scabs marred my torso, the wounds unfamiliar, sealed beneath small squares of white. I reached for one, fingers curling to peel it away?—
