BEFORE HE opens his eyes, he thinks, My head hurts and What happened? and Who am I?
That last thought stutters and trips all over itself.
Because he shouldn’t be thinking Who am I? He should be thinking I am—
He pauses.
Tries again. I am—
And again. I am—
And suddenly, he can finish the thought. It’s effortless, really.
I am Greg Hughes.
He opens his eyes.
He winces at the bright sun overhead against a perfectly blue sky.
He’s outside… somewhere. On his back.
His head hurts. It’s a dull ache, like it’s already fading. His tongue feels thick in his mouth. He coughs once.
He doesn’t think he’s ever seen a sky this blue before.
He thinks, Oh my god.
He’s on a two-lane road. Trees line either side, their leaves swaying in a faint breeze.
The road itself looks freshly paved, the asphalt shiny and black, the painted white and yellow lines vibrant. There are no cars coming from either direction, and then he remembers there are no cars here, there won’t ever be any cars here, and for a moment, he thinks he’s going to black out again. But the air around him is cool and the trees are starting to sprout, like there’s a hint of spring just out of reach.
He stands.
He’s not in any pain, aside from the throbbing in his head. His limbs are intact. His feet work just fine. He’s wearing a pair of dark jeans. A white shirt. Gray sneakers with white shell tops. He’s clean, his clothes are clean. His forearms are thick, covered in a thin layer of reddish gold hair on top of pale skin.
He laughs, and it’s slightly hysterical, an overwhelming relief flowing through him, and he knows he should stop. He knows he should stop before he can’t, and now’s not the time for this. But he can’t, he just can’t, because he’s standing on his own. His thighs are thick and strong, his arms heavily corded with muscle. He feels alive. He feels vital. He feels like he did before… before everything. He’s not weak. His limbs are not brittle sticks. He can take a deep breath without his lungs hurting. And when he reaches up and touches his face, he feels that full beard, feels that full head of hair.
And there are no scars.
There are no scars.
“Okay,” he says, and he’s so surprised at his own voice that he takes a step back. The word comes out deep and strong. Not like the fragile way it was before. Where it’d crack on every third word because his vocal cords were still a bit rusty.
He says, “Okay,” and maybe has a little smile on his face.
He doesn’t see a single cloud in the sky. It’s odd, he thinks, because he doesn’t know if he’s ever seen a cloudless sky. It feels almost artificial, but then he supposes it is. Simple, really.
“Simple,” he says aloud, and he marvels at the sound. He rumbles when he speaks.
His heartbeat slows. His breath evens out.
It’s good. He’s good.
He looks down the road one way. He thinks it’s east because the sun is coming from that direction, and it feels like morning, like it has to be morning. The road stretches for as long as he can see, and there’s nothing but trees and asphalt and those birds calling out.
He looks west and it’s more of the same, except it’s not, because there is something in him, something that’s telling him yes yes yes, that west is the way to go, that he should beat feet, should put the pedal to the metal, make like a banana and split.
“Go west, young man,” he says, “and grow up with the country.”