A light was shining in his eyes. Vaguely, he could see two blurred faces, pale and ghastly in the stark white glow.
"No dilation," a man's voice said. "He doesn't have a concussion, I give you that."
"We should still take him to the hospital."
"No can do, missy. You'll find there are no hospitals anywhere around here. Most you'll get are gas stations and the occasional middle-a-nowhere diner."
"Well, we can't just leave him here!"
"I never said anything about leaving him here. Tell you what, we'll take him to the truck, get to the nearest stop, and then I'll come back for you a little later, after I run a few errands."
"Errands?"
"Just a few. I'll come back, I promise. And we'll go from there. Get it?"
"Got it."
"Good."
The next thing he knew, he was sitting in a stranger's car, speeding down the dusky road at dawn. His injuries soon caught up with him, and he groaned in pain.
"Hang in there just little while longer, okay?" It was the same woman who had been talking before.
The vehicle came to a stop in a large, sparsely populated parking lot. Wrapping her arms around him, she ushered him out of the passenger door and into the building. Behind them, he heard tires rolling away.
Through his one good eye, he could make out the familiar decorations of a typical diner, including a neon jukebox glimmering in the corner. His rescuer deposited him at a cherry-red booth, then disappeared around the corner.
His face was a throbbing mass of pain. Moreover, he was beginning to feel incredibly embarrassed about the whole ordeal. Things would have been better if he'd just stayed home and forgotten all about the stupid nightmare...
The woman returned with a handful of paper towels and a styrofoam cup full of ice. He watched her dump a few chunks of ice on top of a rag and wrap them up. Then she pressed the makeshift ice pack to the side of his face. He winced.
"Hold it yourself, then," she said, and began dabbing at the dried blood from his nose with the wet towels.
"My glasses," he croaked. "Where are my glasses?"
"He took them. Martin, I mean. He'll be back soon."
She was young, maybe a couple years younger than him. Her long dark hair was feathered and she had large, almond-shaped blue eyes. While he stared at her bell-bottom jeans, a sleepwalking employee put a quarter in the jukebox behind her, and Fleetwood Mac's "The Chain" began playing from a speaker somewhere. The normalcy of the scene didn't jive with being dragged into a freezing pond by a twisted old man in a cape. He was beginning to wonder whether or not he was losing his mind.
"...though I'm almost afraid to ask," she said.
"What?"
"I was asking what happened to you?"
He shrugged. "Some guys came after me."
"What did they want?"
"I don't know."
She frowned, but didn't say what she was thinking. With his other hand he took a piece of ice from the cup and stuck it in his mouth. It melted instantly. He thought of the swimming pool he played in as a child, and of the pond behind the house in Bath, and the whirlpool in the prison where he'd been baptized. All in another lifetime, it seemed.
"Oh, I didn't even think to ask. Do you want something to drink or eat?"
"I don't have any money."
"I can pay, don't worry. Besides, I'm hungry too."
So he let her buy them both breakfast.
"Where are you going?" she asked, nibbling on toast.
"I'm not sure."
"Then there must be a place where you could go. Like your family's house, or a friend's place."
"I don't have friends."
"What, you don't talk to people?"
"Not really."
"Well, no wonder. You've got to talk to people to make friends. And who knows—maybe you'll open up new worlds for them."
"I can't open up new worlds for anyone. Mine seems like it's completely collapsed in on itself."
Her eyebrows rose in surprise, then furrowed. "That's weird."
"Not really."
"No, I mean..." She shook her head and smiled awkwardly. "I had this dream not too long ago where I was exchanging letters with somebody. They wrote exactly what you just said." She scrutinized his face. "Have we met before?"
He made an effort to appear uninterested. "Besides in your dream?"
"They say that everyone we see in our dreams is someone we've already met before, even if we only saw them in passing, like sitting in front of you on the bus, or standing next in line at the grocery store. So maybe we have met, we just don't know it. What's your name?"
"Jeff."
Her smile wavered. "My name's Evelyn."
Jeff's stomach flip-flopped. How many letters had he pounded out on the prison's word processor to Dear Evelyn, my Beautiful One, hoping for money and books and magazine subscriptions? And he had said that his world had collapsed—he remembered typing it, remembered telling her he was depressed but yes, she should take her son to the Chicago Aquarium... The question was, did she remember?
"It really was a crazy dream. I had a son to look after, and I was writing letters to a man I had never even met..." She ran her thumb across her lower lip, deep in thought. "I don't know. Maybe it's just a coincidence."
She stood up. On instinct, he grabbed her wrist with his free hand.
"I'm just going to the bathroom," she said.
"...Okay."
He let go.
Jeff stared down at the scraps of their meal. Morning light had begun to stream through the open windows of the diner, the color of fire.
A white pickup truck parked out front. He couldn't see the driver's face through the blinding sunlight, but he watched as they walked through the glass doors.
It was a man wearing tattered jeans, an army jacket, and a red baseball cap. He was tall and slim, with indistinct, androgynous features. His age could've been anywhere from thirty to fifty five, his eyes any color from gray to black. But he had an energetic walk, almost with a spring in his step.
"Here's our fugitive!" the stranger declared. It was the same deep voice he'd heard earlier, belonging to the one who had shone a light in his eyes—the one Evelyn had called Martin.
"Fugitive?"
"Gotta be, with your face all busted up like that. Did you dig your way out of Alcatraz with a spoon from the mess hall?"
He went over to the booth and pulled away the makeshift ice pack (by then little more than a sopping rag). "Miracles still happen, I see." Then he turned to the drowsy employee absentmindedly wiping down the counter. "You might wanna check your water supply."
Jeff touched his eyelid. It was cool, damp—and no longer swollen. His fingers drifted to his nose, feeling for bruising or breaks in the cartilage, but even the dull ache had all but disappeared.
"How..."
"Like I said, the water lines here must be tapping into the Fountain of Youth," Martin said with a shrug. "A shame about your glasses. I believe these are exactly the same, though." From his breast pocket he pulled out an undamaged pair of aviators.
Flabbergasted, Jeff took the new glasses and put them on. His vision cleared immediately.
"How did you get these?"
"I took yours to the optician and asked for another pair."
"I-I don't have any money—"
"That's alright. You not being able to see properly won't do any good. Say, are you headed to Chicago?"
"Chicago?"
"Where I and the young lady are headed. And probably you, too, if I can size anybody up properly. What's your name?"
"Jeff. And I'm going to Milwaukee."
"Well, Chicago's on the way. I can get you there, then put you on a train to Milwaukee. How's that sound, Jeff?"
He shook his head. He wasn't falling for that one again.
"I suppose I owe you an explanation." Martin slid into the booth across from him. "We saw Jim, Mike, and Sam running to their car. I know they're ah, troublemakers from past experience, so I figured something was up. Pulled over, got Evelyn to help me look, and we found you way out in the woods. I could tell you weren't too badly injured, but wasn't about to just leave you there, so I carried you back to the truck and dropped you and her off here."
"Thanks." Jeff dropped his eyes, staring down into the styrofoam cup. All the ice had melted.
"Not much of a talker, are you? But I'll bet you gave Evie an earful—say, here she is!"
Evelyn had returned from the bathroom. When she saw Martin, her face brightened.
"I was wondering when you'd get here."
"I had to pick up some supplies," he said with a wink. "Have you gotten him to talk?"
"He said he was attacked." She turned to Jeff. "What were you doing out there alone, anyway?"
"I don't remember," he lied.
Martin shrugged. "He was caught by my favorite trio. Gutsy little punks. They could've snatched him right from his house, you know."
"They said they were going to Chicago."
"Yeah, that's their usual haunt. But you needn't worry. I can get you through the Windy City safe and sound. You ever been to Chicago before?"
"In my dreams."
"Well, it's not half as nice as that."
Jeff cast a furtive glance at Martin. Something about his eyes reminded him of Neil. Of all the friends who had faded in and out of his life, Neil was the closest thing he had to a best friend.
"Are you trying to get him to go to Chicago with us?" Evelyn asked.
"He's on his way to Milwaukee, and since that's half the route... Can you think of a better way of getting there, Jeff? You've got no money, no car. You've got your glasses thanks to me, but that's about it."
"Don't patronize him, Marty. He doesn't have to go with us if he doesn't want to."
Jeff rubbed his palms over his knees. "You have an extra seat?"
"Certainly. And you wouldn't begrudge Evelyn traveling with us, would you?" That earned a swat on the shoulder from her.
Evelyn. The name stood out in his mind's eye, black ink on cheap yellow paper. She'd sent him his Bible, no doubt hoping to open up new worlds for him.
He shrugged, feigning indifference.
"That's no answer. You do have a choice, I was just exaggerating earlier. You could get a bus ticket here and go just about anywhere. You come with us, though, you can't change your mind—it's either Milwaukee or bust."
There was nothing to go back to in Ohio. He had no mother, no father, no brother to turn to for help. In that moment, he saw only one logical answer.
"I'll go."
"It's settled, then!" Martin rubbed his hands together. "Give me a chance to refuel, and we'll be on our way."