You wake up two
weeks later in a room that is very nearly perfectly white, but actually has a
slightly nauseating tinge of green in the paint. You’re on a very fluffy bed and your knees
are supported by a small pillow. You
still can’t move or feel anything below your neck.
“Where am I?” You
demand in a shout that could shake the walls, and seconds later a squat,
angry-looking man with greying hair enormous pink sunglasses enters from a door
that slides out of the far wall.
“For the moment,
you are safe,” he says, “but you are an accessory to the crimes of Steven of
Axe, the recently executed felon. You
are being detained here until a trial can be arranged for your involvement.”
“What?- But-” a
million things swim and vigorously splash through your mind, but one thing
sticks in your mind like nothing else.
The thought that consumed your dreams for the past weeks of sleep and
the one thing that mattered before you passed out in that little gorge. “Where…” you quake, “is my cell phone?”
The angry little
man blinks. Apparently this wasn’t the
first thing he expected to be on your mind.
“In evidence,” he says eventually, “but you know the darn thing wasn’t
charged, anyway, and it looks like your fall down the cliff wall smashed the
electrical port. It doesn’t look like
that phone’ll work anymore. Why? Didja-”
The rest of the
man’s words are swallowed by your screaming, “NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
