Jack seemed to sense my struggle.
He retrieved a small, dark gray rectangular object and pressed something on its surface.
The device lit up, glowing with unnatural light.
I flinched, instinctively reaching for a weapon I no longer had. “What is that?”
Jack barely glanced up. “It’s a phone. A mobile phone. I’m calling for help.”
I stared at him, bewildered.
“This is how we communicate in this century,” he continued, pressing the device to his ear. “Damn. Voicemail.” He exhaled again, then spoke into the strange object.
“Hey, Lee, this is Jack. You’ve got to call me back. He’s awake. And that damn wound opened up again.”
I blinked, trying to process his words as he pressed something on the device, and the glow disappeared.
“He’ll call us back,” Jack said casually.
I frowned. “Call us back? You mean… shout through the window?”
Jack chuckled. “No, son. There’s a lot to teach you. But right now, you need to focus on healing.”
I barely had the strength to argue. My head throbbed with the weight of too much new knowledge, too much I didn’t understand.
Jack stood, rolling up his sleeves. “I’m going to grab some supplies and redress that wound.” He patted my shoulder lightly. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
I groaned. “In a what? What is this ‘jiffy’?”
Jack chuckled again, shaking his head as he walked toward the door.
“I’ll be right back.”
***
After Jack changed my bandages and handed me a small white pill to dull the pain, he invited me into the kitchen for food.
My stomach growled in response, deciding for me. I followed him.
His house was larger than the one I had grown up in with my mother, and every room was filled with peculiar things—strange contraptions, glowing numbers, materials I couldn’t name. Olivia’s time was full of marvels.
Jack motioned for me to sit at a small table in the corner of the kitchen before turning to prepare the meal.
I watched him move with effortless familiarity, working in a world I didn’t understand. A giant silver box kept food cold. A simple turn of a dial on the stove produced an instant flame. When he poured ground coffee beans into a strange machine, I expected nothing—yet minutes later, the room was filled with a rich, heady aroma.
Coffee. The scent was familiar but not quite the same as the brew I had known.
Jack placed a steaming mug before me. “Here. Do you like cream and sugar?”
I hesitated, inhaling deeply. The scent was earthy, bitter. Different.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
Jack grinned. “Let me prepare it the way I like. Then you can decide for yourself.”
He crossed to the silver box, retrieving a stiff, waxy paper container. The design was unlike anything I had seen before.
With a practiced motion, he poured white cream into my cup, swirling it into the dark liquid. Then he reached for a small glass jar filled with tiny crystals—sugar; I realized, adding a careful measure before stirring it with a gleaming silver spoon.
