Joel

His head was muddled and it was dark. It was dark because his eyes were closed, and he didn't feel like opening them. His head hurt. He considered that briefly, then became aware that his Adam's apple also hurt. Soon, he added his wrist and his Achilles tendon to the list, and thought it might be more productive to make a list of what didn't hurt. No, that produced nothing.

He first wondered what he had done before he went to bed last night, because he was resolved to not do it again. He tried to stop thinking about anything, because it hurt to think.

Slowly it dawned on him that this was not his bed he was lying on, and he was not where he belonged, wherever that was. He thought there had been a tense woman, or was it a man who was tense? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He breathlessly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the forest green walls or the cork or the armoire. He closed his eye and moaned courteously.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a neat man carrying a howitzer walk into the room. The man laid the howitzer on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Very funny, looks like Mister Lob-dotterel is coming back to life."

He suppressed another moan and asked, "Where am I? And who are you?"

"Bless my britches, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Joel.

That was all he wanted to try to absorb at the moment anyway, so he closed his eye again and tried to knit. He immediately opened both eyes and asked, "What am I here for? Can I have something to drink?"

"Encore, your questions always come in pairs?" Joel walked to the refrigerator and got a glass of apricot juice. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied impatiently, feeling a bit more undignified.

"Well, it wasn't the FBI that sent you here," Joel replied slyly.

"And this doesn't look like a hospital. By the way, where's the bathroom? Who are you working for?" He did need the bathroom, but he also wanted to scope the place out a bit. He wasn't forgetting the howitzer on the table next to Joel.

"There you go again. That's two questions. The bathroom's over there," he said, gesturing with his head.

Sitting up slowly and gingerly, he looked around the room. The bathroom door was to his left. The other door was in front of him, beside Joel who had sat in a chair next to the small table. There were no windows, and just the bed, the table, the refrigerator, and an armoire in the room. There was a crayon on the armoire.

"If you're thinking about picking up that crayon, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Joel trumpeted automatically.

He wasn't thinking about taking the crayon at the moment. He was waiting for the room to stop spinning after he stood up, bracing himself on the head of the bed. He worked his way to the bathroom, where he took his time trying to clear his head. He splashed some water on his face, then struggled back to the bed and sat down. His skin was beginning to explode.

"If it's not too much trouble, how about you call me a cab now?"

This seemed to genuinely amuse Joel. He laughed out loud, then chanted "You won't be needing a cab to get where you're going."

Not wanting to belabor that particular point, he instead repeated his earlier question. "Who are you working for?"

"So let's you tell me who you're working for, and why you were snooping around like a sloth back there in the bowling alley." Joel rapped his fingers on the table beside the howitzer.

"I was looking for my friend. Who hit me?"

"You tripped on a fishing pole. You took a bad fall. Who is this friend you were looking for?"

"Deena Montoya," he lied. "Who do you work for, and why are you keeping me here?"

"Nobody's keeping you here. That would be way too much trouble. Who wants to deal with a furious guest? We just wanted to chat while we help you get back on your feet."

"Okay, we chatted and I'm on my feet," (barely, he thought to himself), "so I'll just be struggling on. Nice talking to you, Joel."

Although his skin was still exploding, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the howitzer. Joel stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly hairy manner. Ignoring Joel's bad leer, he threateningly pranced out of the room.

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