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I am not sure how long I sat, drooling, perched in the corner. For most of the night restless, I slept poorly until finally jolted awake, realizing I was still alive. Wondering how? I was there, but the entire event lacking definition. The sun was now high in the sky and hunger pains announcing it must be at least mid morning. Eyes slowly opening, adjusting to the light, taking a big breath, feeling the company of another. Slowly realized she was there, sitting nearby, reading. At one point, books banned and used as kindling. Although this one is a classic, 1984.
She shares, “Funny story, they have accused you of killing a dozen hombres when, in reality, you killed one drunk doctor months ago. And… the best he could do in his defense was shoot a hole in the roof.”
“What about John Smith?” I asked.
Addison scoffs, “A dozen witness, a dozen stories. Imagine all the fresh gossip you have produced. Folks will sit around campfires for weeks, telling how they witnessed you out drew men that never actually existed.”
“What,” I mumbled.
“The recorders were writing your epitaph, the mortician building your casket, and grave diggers digging, and then you somehow miraculously walked away.”
“All the workers completed their task. Just for another.”
“And why are you here?” I said.
“For this chat and get you moving,” she answered.
“Give me a moment. I need to gather my thoughts.”
“Nope. We are gonna exit this shelter. Prepare to be blinded by the sun. Then walk to our special table and meet up with the team, have some brunch, and talk about the weather,” she said.
“I feel like…”
“And you look like…”
We headed off looking as invisible as possible, ignoring the side glances and muttered comments. Doing my best to not make eye contact. The team is already at our table with a little fruit and basket of rolls with butter and tea. Wow, by most standards, a feast. Greetings all around while Frank noted the sunny, warm weather.
Small talk while we avoided last night’s disruption. I felt like I was the only one clueless, missing something, not fully aware of what happened. Those sitting at the table knowing what I don’t.
“Should anyone ask, you deny any knowledge of the evening, which in this case is likely,” Brett said, “nothing changes, tonight same place, same time, same duties.”
Stories would spread as last night’s guest headed across the community. Most exaggerated. Most falling on ears interested in the events, not the victim. Most claiming more knowledge of last night’s events while they rewrite history.
In the future, realizing the unexpected will happen. We need backup plans on hand should this occur again.
Brett asked, “have you every meet that man?”
“No.”
“Okay, so let me enlighten you. He is or was a hired gun. He was most likely here for a reason. You being that reason.”
“Why?”
Then I recalled a recent threat… the note, I pulled it out and read, Mr. Jesse Tucker, I know who you are; I know where you are; I knew your wife; you are a dead man, sincerely.
“What did he look like?” Brett said.
“Prosopagnosia?” asked Frank.
He could walk up and introduce himself, pull up a seat, and engage us in a lively conversation, and I would never recognize him, like meeting him for the first time. That dreaded hopeless feeling returned, a tightness, a feeling of fear, the desire to avoid something.
What exactly was I trying to avoid? Time for a little transparency.
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