It’s the only explanation I can think of, but the idea falls apart when the nurse returns and I ask the date.
“March 28th,” she tells me.
“What year?”
“Still a little groggy, are we? It’s 2015.” I must look surprised, because she asks, “What year did you think it was?”
“I…forgot for a moment, that’s all. It’s what I thought.”
She smiles. “Maybe you can answer something for me.”
“Um, sure.”
“You want to tell me your name?”
I hesitate. Once my name is entered into the data system, the institute will be notified and someone would come for me. So far, I seem to have extended my freedom by at least four days, but I’d like to experience a few more while conscious.
“Do you remember it?” she asks, her smile slipping.
“Denny,” I say. It’s a common enough name so it shouldn’t ring any bells. For my surname, though, I choose one from a book my mother used to read me. “Denny Wicks.”
“Denny? Like the restaurant?”
I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I nod.
“Is that a nickname for Dennis?”
It’s not a nickname for anything, but erring on the side of caution, I nod again.
She writes my name down on the large pad she’s carrying. “Nice to meet you, Denny Wicks. I’m Clara. I’m your nightshift nurse today.” She adjusts the sheet covering my chest. “Someone will bring you some food in a bit. For now, try to rest. I have a feeling the police will be back to talk to you soon.”
“Police?”
As if she’s telling me a secret, she whispers, “They want to know why you were in that house.”
I stare at her. “What house?”
“The one you were found in front of,” she says.
It takes me a moment, but then I remember. The one with wooden floors and no furniture. The one where I threw up.
The police officers come as I’m finishing a meal of bland meat and a fluffy white dollop of potato. The men’s uniforms are unfamiliar to me, the material so dark blue it’s almost black. Strapped around each man’s waist is a belt lined with compartments and holders, one of which carries a pistol. Pinned to the shirt on each man’s chest is a miniature silver shield that reads NEW YORK CITY POLICE and has its own unique number.
The badge confuses me.
New York City?
It can’t be.
Upjohn Hall is in the city called New York. Though I’ve seen very little of the metropolis, it is where I live.
When I realize both men are looking at me expectantly, I clear my throat and whisper, “I’m sorry?”
The man closest to me looks a bit put out. “You told the nurse your name is Dennis Wicks. Is that correct or not?”
“Yes,” I say.
“All right, Mr. Wicks. Can you tell us where you live?”
“Live?”
Again, he’s not pleased. “Your address.”
“I’m…not…sure.”
“You remember your name but not where you live?”
From a book I read, I know that head trauma sometimes causes memory problems, so I say as sincerely as possible, “I’m sorry. I don’t.”
“Do you at least remember if you’re from the city? Or just visiting?”
“Which city?”
He grimaces. “New York.”
I pretend to think for a moment before shrugging. “I wish I knew.”
The other man asks, “How about the house? Why were you there?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do remember the house, right? Two Forty-Four Rosemary Avenue?”
“Not really.”
“Did you break in so you could sleep there?”
“I’m not a squatter,” I say.
“So you don’t remember the house, but you do remember you weren’t crashing there for the night?”
The phrase is strange, but I get the gist and realize my words are getting me into trouble. I sink into my pillow and close my eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe, I guess. It just doesn’t feel like something I would do.”
Clara, who’s been standing across the room, approaches the bed and says, “I think maybe he’s had enough for now.”
The police don’t look happy but the main one says, “Sure. Mr. Wicks, we’ll come back when you’ve had a little rest.”
I keep my eyes closed until everyone’s gone.
I stare at the ceiling, my heart racing in my chest. I’m not concerned about the policemen specifically, but rather what they represent, what this hospital represents, and the new potential explanation for what’s happened.
It isn’t long before Clara returns and checks some of the wires that run from me to nearby instruments. “Are you okay?” she asks as she grabs my wrist and glances at her watch.
“I’m fine.”
She lets go of my hand and I see she doesn’t believe me. “Your heart rate’s a little elevated. I’m going to go grab something to help you relax. I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say, to no avail. She’s already out the door.
I don’t want to take something that will put me back to sleep. I need to think. I need to figure out what the hell is going on.
More than anything, I really need to get out of here.
I reach up to scratch the side of my neck and feel a tug on my arm. I glance down and see the wires and tubes attached to me. They must’ve alerted Clara to come check on me. If I’m going to leave, I’ll need to yank everything off and get out in a hurry. This thought leads me to another problem. Clothes. No way can I go anywhere in the thin covering I’m wearing.
I look around. There’s only one cabinet so if my clothes are here, that’s where they’d be. Is my leather satchel in there, too?
My breath catches in my throat.
Oh, God. My Chaser.
I would’ve been holding it when I arrived at the house. Is it stored with my other things? Or do the police have it?
My escape from this place is now even more pressing.
I look at the machines around my bed again, and notice that most of them are on wheels. If I’m careful, I might be able to roll them far enough for me to reach the cabinet without setting off an alarm.
Before I can test the theory, the door opens and Clara returns. In her hands is a tray holding two cups. One contains water and the other contains two pills.
“Pop them in your mouth,” she says as she dumps the pills in my hand. “They’ll help you sleep.”
I try to fake taking them, but one falls out of my hand as my fingers hit my lips.
“Let me,” she says. She takes the pills and pushes them into my mouth.
As she raises the water to my lips, the only thing I can do is shove the pills between my cheek and teeth with my tongue and hope they don’t slip free as I drink. One of the pills cooperates but the other doesn’t.
“There,” she says, lowering my head back to the pillow. “The best thing you can do right now is rest. I’ll check on you later.”
The moment her back is to me, I pull the remaining pill out of my mouth and slip it under the covers. I hope to God the one that went down isn’t enough to knock me out, but in my condition, who knows?
Clara dims the lights and leaves.
As soon as the door is completely closed, I set about trying to lower the railing on the side of my bed. I spend more time than I should on it, but finally get it to swing downward. I scoot toward the side of the bed so I can move my legs over the edge, but I feel a tug below my waist. I stop and look under the sheet.
What I see is disturbing, to say the least. There’s a tube running between my legs that appears to be carrying away my urine and is connected to me in a way I’m not at all excited about. If I’m going to leave, though, it can’t stay there. I grab the tube with one hand and where it’s attached to me with the other.