Sliding the phone back into my pocket I quietly used the bathroom and exited back into the hallway. It was a bare hall; no pictures or anything hanging up on the walls, and I only passed one other room. Passing out of the mouth of the hall I emerged into the kitchen where Shelby was stood at the stove stirring stew beneath a yellow hood light, contrasted against the white lights of the kitchen and a backdrop of faded, peeling wallpaper. Zeke sat at the kitchen table, the shotgun apart as he cleaned it carefully with a series of brushes and fluids.

“Zeke, I done told you not to clean that thing at the table,” Shelby said. She shook her head but didn’t turn or make a move to stop him. It seemed like a tired argument that had been hashed out time and again. Maybe they were both sick of it.

“And I done told you you’re a boarder, guess whose name is on the deed?” Zeke replied without batting an eye. “I tell you what, lady.”

“Um, excuse me,” I interrupted. Shelby glanced back at me, Zeke didn’t glance up from his shotgun; the wisping of brush against barrel could be heard throughout the space, just above the boiling of the stew. “Do either of you…have a phone charger?”

“Phone charger?” Zeke said, disinterest tainting his voice. “You mean to say you’ve got one of them fancy cell phones?”

“Ain’t never charged a phone,” Shelby chuckled. “You must be one of them rich kids. Why you dressed like that then? Shouldn’t you be off riding in some fancy car or eating steak?”

That was a little ridiculous, it was a ZTE phone; it couldn’t have cost more than forty dollars. Then again, looking around I would say that $40 was probably the market value of this house.

“Well…” I said, forgetting the phone for a minute. “Do you…at least have a phone I can use?”

“Phone’s in there,” Zeke pointed to the living room. “Up on the stand where we keep the video tapes. Mind you don’t call long distance. I called the sheriff while you was washing up, he says he’ll have someone out here tomorrow to take you where you need to go. Till then you can sit tight here. I don’t got more than two rooms but you can make yourself at home on the couch. Just don’t touch nothin’.”

“Right,” I said. “Thank you.”

With that I turned and walked through the archway leading into the living room. It was probably the crappiest living room I’d ever seen; the couch was a three-cushion upholstered in faded wood camouflage, and there were a few wicker chairs accompanied by a recliner. In the center of the room a long wooden coffee table stood proud, though the paint was peeling and it had never been stained. I could see the outline of a moisture ring where someone had been setting a cup without a coaster. A wire rack beside the couch held paper magazines. Outdoor Life, Bowhunting, Field&Stream, Guns&Ammo. Nothing I would be interested in. Why were there paper magazines anyway? Did Zeke own a tablet? Oh, right, he didn’t even have a cellphone. Speaking of which, I located the phone sitting on the wooden cabinet at the front of the living room; it was an older style with a corded handset and a number pad. Easy enough; I’d seen one of these in a museum. I reached out and gripped the handset, pulling it off the receiver; as I held it up to my ear the buzzing of the dial tone rang out, nearly startling me into dropping the handset. I’d seen one of these used before but I’d never actually done it myself. Who the hell used a corded phone anymore? More importantly, who even kept one in their house?

I stared at the number pad and reached out, but then came to a startling realization: I didn’t know any phone numbers. It hit me like a ton of bricks that I’d owned a cellphone for most of my life, and who dialed numbers anymore? I set the receiver down slowly, then stood there, trying to remember Megan’s number. What was it? I needed to talk to her so badly, and I knew she would answer the phone if I could only remember the number. I heard Zeke click the shotgun back together in the kitchen, I heard Shelby turn the stove burner off with a click. I stared at the phone for another second and then my eyes wandered a bit to the left; a newspaper sat on the stand. I stared at the huge bolded headline for a moment. It read: ‘DID YOU MAKE IT?’. Did I make it? Did I make what? Then I read the subheading: ‘TURN THE PHONE ON, MICHAEL!’.

Turn the phone on. Turn the phone on. I touched my pocket for a moment and then shoved my fingers in, grabbing the ZTE phone and yanking it out. I held the power button again but this time, no battery icon. It was completely dead. How was I supposed to turn it on when it was dead? God dammit, what was going on?

“You know, you don’t clean up too well,” Shelby said. I jumped a bit and turned; she was standing in doorway, leaning against the archway with her arms folded. She was dressed in a pair of jeans and a purple cami with this thin black sweater that reached down to her knees, almost like a bathrobe but definitely not. My eyes caught her jet black hair again, the left side held tightly in place with a purple barrette to compliment her pale white freckled face. I swear if the circumstances had been different, I might have been in love. The circumstances weren’t different, I had to get out of here. “Soup’s on, if you’re hungry. You’re gonna be here all night, less you plan on taking a walk into town, about five miles thataway.”

She pointed to the east, I guess the direction of town, whatever town that was. It suddenly occurred to me that I wanted to ask where we were, what town, but that would sound a little weird, wouldn’t it? Suddenly an idea occurred to me. The newspaper behind me, it had to have the city name, or if I were lucky, even the town name.

“Alright,” I said. “I’ll be right in.”

Shelby stared at me for a brief second with her piercing, pale blue eyes and then nodded. She unfolded her arms and turned, walking back into the kitchen. I heard her mutter something to Zeke about keeping that ‘stupid shotgun off the table’. I closed my eyes deeply and drew a deep breath, turning back toward the stand. The newspaper was still there but the headline now read: ‘Timothy J. McVeigh Sentenced to Death for Oklahoma City Bombing’. Who the hell was that? It wasn’t important. I looked to the top of the paper: Bartville Courier. Okay, Bartville, where was that? Oh, there, right below it said: ‘Kentucky’s Finest News Source’. Okay even if I were in Kentucky, ‘Finest news source’ was probably a stretch.

So I was in Kentucky, and I was a girl named Makayla. This wasn’t right at all. A few hours ago I had been Michael, I’d been driving to see my girlfriend, in Ohio. She’d moved, I had been using my iPhone to navigate to her house. The night before I’d played World of Warcraft, Battle for Azeroth. Come on, Michael, try to remember! It was like my memories were getting fuzzy, but why? I had to figure this out and most importantly, I had to turn this stupid phone on, somehow. I kept thinking about the message in the headline: ‘Did you make it?’. What was it talking about.

“Little girl, you goin’ for this soup or can I have your share?” Zeke called out from the kitchen. I sighed. Right now, I had no choice but to eat.