Again, But Better(69)

“Look, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he states simply.

“How can you not know what I’m—” Pilot’s words muffle. I turn and look at the door across the hall. Head for it. A roar’s building in my ears. It only takes a few steps and I’m knocking. The door creaks as someone opens it from the other side. Sahra’s face appears in front of me. My jaw’s gone slack.

“You misplace your key already?” she asks.

“Hey, Pilot,” Sahra shoots over my shoulder. Darkness creeps at the edges of my vision. Shit.





2. Somebody Catch My Breath



“Shane? Shane!”

What happened? I pull my eyes open. Pilot’s face floats into focus above me. He’s saying my name again, anxiety spiking through his voice.

I gasp for oxygen. “Oh my god, I passed out.” I squeeze my eyes shut. Everything comes slamming back. The elevator. London?

“I had this Twilight Zone dream we were back in London, and Atticus and Sahra—”

“Shane,” Pilot cuts me off. I vaguely register that I’m awkwardly lying with my head in his lap, his arms stretched out under my armpits. He caught me trust-fall style. I stare past him at the white ceiling in confusion. The elevator was black.

Sahra’s face pops into view.

“Oh my god,” I croak.

“Shane, I got you some water. Don’t worry, Atticus ran to get help,” she says.

“Sahra, Atticus—” My eyes find Pilot’s and he nods.

“Yeah,” he says.

I sit up quickly. Pilot takes back his arms, and I scoot away. “I don’t need help. I’m fine. I just need some water and some food. I’ll be fine.”

“Take it easy, Shane,” Sahra says. I grab the glass of water from her outstretched hand and chug it down.

Frantic footsteps fly down the hall, and Atticus comes into view. He speaks through heaving breaths. “I found. Someone. They’re coming.”

“No, no, tell them not to come, please. I’m fine. I just need to eat some food.”

“Are you sure? You were pale as heck,” Atticus asks, heaving.

“Please, go call them off!”

“Um.” Atticus looks from to me to Pilot. Pilot gives him a nod, and Atticus takes off running back upstairs.

I look back at Sahra, now leaning against the wall, watching me with a worried expression. “I’m fine, guys, really.”

“Maybe it’s the jet lag or something?” Sahra reasons. Her eyes catch on something behind me. “The hell? Why are there knives on the floor?”

I look over at Pilot, who’s now sitting on the ground, staring blankly at the carpet. I turn back to Sahra.

“I’ll take care of the knives. Can you, um, give us a second?” I ask quietly.

“Okay,” Sahra drawls in a mildly suspicious tone. “Take it slow getting up,” she adds assertively before heading back into … our room. She leaves the door open.

I turn to Pilot. “Pilot?”

He doesn’t move or respond.

“Pies? Pilot!” I reach out and shake his shoulder. He looks up and meets my eyes, but doesn’t say anything. I exhale in relief before slowly rising from the ground. I need food.

“Let’s go get something to eat.”

Pilot nods and gets up. I start to walk toward the staircase. It’s the same staircase. When we reach the landing, we come face-to-face with the foyer of the Karlston. I mash my lips together and plow past the front desk, through the doors. I glance over my shoulder to make sure Pilot is behind me. He is, looking just as dumbstruck as I feel. We emerge onto the street with all the fancy white-pillared buildings.

I come to a standstill on the sidewalk, my head frantically swinging from left to right. Pilot stands next to me in silence. We stay that way for a minute.

Then Pilot puts a hand on my back and steers me to the right. “Food—this way.”

I comply. We head toward Gloucester Road. His arm drops back to his side. We walk like aliens on a foreign planet: creeping cautiously rather than at a normal human pace, and silently ogling at our surroundings. London breathes around us. Cars swish by. Children pass on scooters. Men and women power walk home from work. Red buses race down the street.

At the end of the block we come up on a newspaper machine for the Telegraph. I stop walking and reach for Pilot’s arm so he stops as well. We share a look before simultaneously stooping down to inspect the front page behind the glass. It takes me a moment to pinpoint the date. Under The Telegraph, on the top left in tiny print, it reads: January 9, 2011.

I collapse the rest of the way to the ground and land pretzel-style on the cold concrete sidewalk. Pilot grips under my upper arm and helps me back to a standing position.

“Food.” He points down the street.

I nod, and we walk. Eventually we’re in front of Byron’s. I nod up at it and look at Pilot. He nods, and we go in. A tall, skinny, dark-haired waiter strides up to us.

“Table for two?” he asks.

I nod. Maybe I’ll just speak in nods from now on.

The waiter directs us to a table near the wall. We sit. The place mats are menus. Neither of us speaks. I stare at my menu. Questions swarm my brain.

I take a deep breath. Inhale. Hold. Exhale.