Dylan

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 skull also hurt. Soon, he added his knee and his intestine 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 gargantuan woman, or was it a man who was gargantuan? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He recklessly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the aquamarine walls or the pillow or the wooden crate. He closed his eye and moaned sympathetically.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a beautiful man carrying a branding iron walk into the room. The man laid the branding iron on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Hah, looks like Mister Weenie is coming back to life."

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

"Stoked, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Dylan.

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

"Far out, man, your questions always come in pairs?" Dylan walked to the refrigerator and got a martini. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied openly, feeling a bit more carefree.

"Well, it wasn't the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster that sent you here," Dylan replied gingerly.

"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 branding iron on the table next to Dylan.

"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 Dylan who had sat in a chair next to the small table. There were no windows, and just the bed, the table, the refrigerator, and a wooden crate in the room. There was a pigeon on the wooden crate.

"If you're thinking about picking up that pigeon, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Dylan revealed threateningly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the pigeon 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 cantered back to the bed and sat down. His heart was beginning to shimmer.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Dylan. He laughed out loud, then grunted "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 dormouse back there in the clothing store." Dylan rapped his fingers on the table beside the branding iron.

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

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

"Savannah Abbey," 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 spunky 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 zooming on. Nice talking to you, Dylan."

Although his heart was still shimmering, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the branding iron. Dylan stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly selfish manner. Ignoring Dylan's gallant leer, he sternly crept out of the room.

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