Rewinder

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

At first all I know is the pain.

It’s the worse I have ever felt, and feels as if a red-hot spike is being hammered through the center of my brain. Pulsating waves of torture surge through every nerve in my body as I stagger forward.

In a half-second pause between onslaughts, I realize something’s wrong. If not for the wall I just ran into, I would be on the ground. But the arrival hall at the institute is a large space, fifty feet across in either direction. There should be no wall for me to run into. Besides, the institute’s walls are cool marble, while the one my shoulder leans against feels as if it might break if I hit it too hard.

I force my eyelids apart enough so I can take a look around. I am definitely not in the arrival hall. This space can’t be more than fifteen feet across at its widest, and windows are on three sides. There are no windows in the arrival area at the institute.

Through the windows I can see bushes and grass and — through the window to the left — a road with several odd-looking carriages parked along it. The wall without windows contains an arched entry into another room and a brick fireplace.

A home, I think.

I cringe and fall to my knees in another fit of agony, and all thoughts of where I am momentarily disappear. When I open my eyes again, I see my Chaser lying several feet away on the wood-slat floor.

Through the fire in my head, my training struggles to be heard. Protect your device.

I turn, intending to crawl over to it, but as I set my hand down my stomach retches, and the protein bars I ate before entering the tavern spills onto the floor.

Out of habit, I murmur, “I’m sorry,” as I crawl around it.

When I reach my Chaser, I try to put it in my bag but the satchel isn’t at my side. I can feel the strap across my chest, but in my haze and confusion I can’t seem to move the bag from where it lies against my back.

Protect your device.

Yes, yes, I know!

A wave of nausea passes through me as I scan the room, but thankfully I’m able to keep down whatever’s left in my stomach.

There, I think. I can hide it there.

I crawl across the floor to the hearth and shove my device up the chimney. I half expect it to fall when I pull my hand back out but it doesn’t.

My head begins to swim so I close my eyes. When I open them, I realize I must’ve blacked out, because I’m sitting with my back to the fireplace and have no idea why I’m here.

When the smell of vomit hits me, I push to my feet and inch forward, using the wall as a crutch. Gray begins to appear around the edges of my vision as the rod of pain in my head refuses to ease.

Feeling like I’m about to pass out again, I will myself to stay alert. I need to know where I am. I need to assess my situation.

I don’t notice the door until it’s only a few feet in front of me. I struggle with the knob and when it opens, I feel the touch of a breeze.

Unsure where the exit leads but wanting desperately to be outside, I stagger over the threshold and don’t see the two steps leading down. With a groan of surprise, I tumble face-first, landing half on grass, half on concrete walkway.

I feel blood running out of my nose, but whatever agony the fall might have caused is masked by the excruciating pain of my time trip.

I hear what I think is a voice, but it seems so far away. And then running steps.

And then…

…nothing.

Four days. That’s what the nurse tells me.

Four days since I arrived at the hospital. The missing time is unnerving, but it’s the hospital itself that really scares me.

Brooklyn Hospital Center, the nurse called it.

I’ve heard the name Brooklyn before. It’s the city next to New York. But it’s not the name that’s a problem. The facility’s too modern both in equipment and approach to fit any era but my home time. Granted, the facilities for those in the upper castes are off limits to Eights like me, a point I know well from the lack of treatment my sister received. But I’ve seen pictures of those medical centers. They were impressive, to say the least, but none was comparable to where I am now.

One of the things Marie taught me was that traveling past my home time and into the future is impossible. According to her, the future is an impenetrable barrier. The institute has conducted exhaustive tests, but no one has ever traveled beyond his or her home time. Have I somehow done that?

It’s the only explanation I can think of, but the idea falls apart when the nurse returns and I ask the date.

“March 28^th,” she tells me.

“What year?”

“Still a little groggy, are we? It’s 2015.” I must look surprised, because she asks, “What year did you think it was?”

“I…forgot for a moment, that’s all. It’s what I thought.”

She smiles. “Maybe you can answer something for me.”

“Um, sure.”

“You want to tell me your name?”

I hesitate. Once my name is entered into the data system, the institute will be notified and someone would come for me. So far, I seem to have extended my freedom by at least four days, but I’d like to experience a few more while conscious.

“Do you remember it?” she asks, her smile slipping.

“Denny,” I say. It’s a common enough name so it shouldn’t ring any bells. For my surname, though, I choose one from a book my mother used to read me. “Denny Wicks.”

“Denny? Like the restaurant?”

I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I nod.

“Is that a nickname for Dennis?”

It’s not a nickname for anything, but erring on the side of caution, I nod again.

She writes my name down on the large pad she’s carrying. “Nice to meet you, Denny Wicks. I’m Clara. I’m your nightshift nurse today.” She adjusts the sheet covering my chest. “Someone will bring you some food in a bit. For now, try to rest. I have a feeling the police will be back to talk to you soon.”

“Police?”

As if she’s telling me a secret, she whispers, “They want to know why you were in that house.”

I stare at her. “What house?”

“The one you were found in front of,” she says.

It takes me a moment, but then I remember. The one with wooden floors and no furniture. The one where I threw up.

The police officers come as I’m finishing a meal of bland meat and a fluffy white dollop of potato. The men’s uniforms are unfamiliar to me, the material so dark blue it’s almost black. Strapped around each man’s waist is a belt lined with compartments and holders, one of which carries a pistol. Pinned to the shirt on each man’s chest is a miniature silver shield that reads NEW YORK CITY POLICE and has its own unique number.

The badge confuses me.

New York City?

It can’t be.

Upjohn Hall is in the city called New York. Though I’ve seen very little of the metropolis, it is where I live.

When I realize both men are looking at me expectantly, I clear my throat and whisper, “I’m sorry?”

The man closest to me looks a bit put out. “You told the nurse your name is Dennis Wicks. Is that correct or not?”

“Yes,” I say.

“All right, Mr. Wicks. Can you tell us where you live?”

“Live?”

Again, he’s not pleased. “Your address.”

“I’m…not…sure.”

“You remember your name but not where you live?”

From a book I read, I know that head trauma sometimes causes memory problems, so I say as sincerely as possible, “I’m sorry. I don’t.”

“Do you at least remember if you’re from the city? Or just visiting?”

“Which city?”

He grimaces. “New York.”

I pretend to think for a moment before shrugging. “I wish I knew.”

The other man asks, “How about the house? Why were you there?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do remember the house, right? Two Forty-Four Rosemary Avenue?”

“Not really.”

“Did you break in so you could sleep there?”

“I’m not a squatter,” I say.

“So you don’t remember the house, but you do remember you weren’t crashing there for the night?”

The phrase is strange, but I get the gist and realize my words are getting me into trouble. I sink into my pillow and close my eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe, I guess. It just doesn’t feel like something I would do.”

Clara, who’s been standing across the room, approaches the bed and says, “I think maybe he’s had enough for now.”

The police don’t look happy but the main one says, “Sure. Mr. Wicks, we’ll come back when you’ve had a little rest.”

I keep my eyes closed until everyone’s gone.

I stare at the ceiling, my heart racing in my chest. I’m not concerned about the policemen specifically, but rather what they represent, what this hospital represents, and the new potential explanation for what’s happened.

It isn’t long before Clara returns and checks some of the wires that run from me to nearby instruments. “Are you okay?” she asks as she grabs my wrist and glances at her watch.

“I’m fine.”

She lets go of my hand and I see she doesn’t believe me. “Your heart rate’s a little elevated. I’m going to go grab something to help you relax. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be fine,” I say, to no avail. She’s already out the door.

I don’t want to take something that will put me back to sleep. I need to think. I need to figure out what the hell is going on.

More than anything, I really need to get out of here.

I reach up to scratch the side of my neck and feel a tug on my arm. I glance down and see the wires and tubes attached to me. They must’ve alerted Clara to come check on me. If I’m going to leave, I’ll need to yank everything off and get out in a hurry. This thought leads me to another problem. Clothes. No way can I go anywhere in the thin covering I’m wearing.

I look around. There’s only one cabinet so if my clothes are here, that’s where they’d be. Is my leather satchel in there, too?

My breath catches in my throat.

Oh, God. My Chaser.

I would’ve been holding it when I arrived at the house. Is it stored with my other things? Or do the police have it?

My escape from this place is now even more pressing.

I look at the machines around my bed again, and notice that most of them are on wheels. If I’m careful, I might be able to roll them far enough for me to reach the cabinet without setting off an alarm.

Before I can test the theory, the door opens and Clara returns. In her hands is a tray holding two cups. One contains water and the other contains two pills.

“Pop them in your mouth,” she says as she dumps the pills in my hand. “They’ll help you sleep.”

I try to fake taking them, but one falls out of my hand as my fingers hit my lips.

“Let me,” she says. She takes the pills and pushes them into my mouth.

As she raises the water to my lips, the only thing I can do is shove the pills between my cheek and teeth with my tongue and hope they don’t slip free as I drink. One of the pills cooperates but the other doesn’t.

“There,” she says, lowering my head back to the pillow. “The best thing you can do right now is rest. I’ll check on you later.”

The moment her back is to me, I pull the remaining pill out of my mouth and slip it under the covers. I hope to God the one that went down isn’t enough to knock me out, but in my condition, who knows?

Clara dims the lights and leaves.

As soon as the door is completely closed, I set about trying to lower the railing on the side of my bed. I spend more time than I should on it, but finally get it to swing downward. I scoot toward the side of the bed so I can move my legs over the edge, but I feel a tug below my waist. I stop and look under the sheet.

What I see is disturbing, to say the least. There’s a tube running between my legs that appears to be carrying away my urine and is connected to me in a way I’m not at all excited about. If I’m going to leave, though, it can’t stay there. I grab the tube with one hand and where it’s attached to me with the other.

Silently, I count down from five and then pull. I’m prepared for searing agony, but what I feel is more pressure than pain.

Freed, I swing my legs off the bed. Most of the machines I’m plugged into are on one side but one apparatus is not, and its cords aren’t long enough to swing around the end of the bed. I have no choice but to unhook myself from it.

I hurry over to the cabinet, the other machines rolling along most of the way there. I find my clothes in the large upper section. They’re designed to be worn in 1775 colonial North America, but they’re better than the open-back hospital smock. I pull on my pants and shoes. My shirt and jacket can’t go on until I’m unplugged. Before that, though, I look for my bag.

I pull open the lower drawers and finally find the satchel in the bottom one. When I open the flap, I tense. My Chaser isn’t there. I look around the room, thinking maybe I’ve missed a cabinet, but spot nothing.

The police? Please, no.

I close my eyes and try to remember my arrival four days earlier. Bits and pieces come to me — flashes of the house, the windows, the floor.

Then a flash of my Chaser, lying several feet away. Another flash and it’s gone.

Did I put it in my bag or not?

Concentrating harder, I think about my satchel until I can almost feel it flopped across my back. What I sense, though, is that it’s not where I put the Chaser.

Hurry! I tell myself, sure that Clara will return at any moment.

A flash of another window, then a wall, and then—

— a fireplace.

Yes. I remember now. I stuck it in the chimney.

My eyes shoot open and I yank off the tubes and wires. Clutching jacket and satchel in one hand while pulling my shirt on with the other, I hurry to the door and open it enough to peek out. Beyond is a wide, well-lit corridor. There are several closed doors along the other side that I guess lead to other rooms like mine. Here and there, rolling equipment sits against the wall. Though I can hear someone walking in the distance, I see no one.

I widen the opening and slip out.

I hoped to find an empty hall, but to the left are several people walking in both directions. Some are wearing white like the nurse who’s been helping me, while others are dressed in clothing that again looks odd to me. To the right, the hall is less occupied, but about fifty feet down is an open area with a counter where several nurses sit.

I decide my best bet is to go left, away from where the nurses are gathered. I don my jacket and pull my satchel over my shoulder as I move into the hallway. I feel the urge to run but resist it and turn down the first intersection I reach. Now that there are more walls between me and the room I was in, I feel a bit better, but I know I’m not out of trouble yet.

Ahead I hear a bell, followed by a whooshing sound. The hall soon widens to accommodate a row of metal doors. One is open, revealing a small room where several people are standing.

A lift, I realize.

The door starts to shut, but a hand juts out from inside and stops it.

“You going down?” the man whose hand it is asks me.

“Yes, thank you,” I say as I dart into the compartment.

“Lobby or somewhere else?” The man’s outstretched finger is hovering near a panel with numbered buttons on it.

“Lobby,” I say.

The lift is larger than any I’ve ever been on, and could hold at least twenty people. At the moment, there are only four others beside myself — the man who held the door, a young couple, and a female nurse. The nurse is the one who worries me most, but she doesn’t seem to have any interest in me. The other three, however, do.

“Nice getup,” the male half of the couple says.

“Excuse me?”

“Is it Fashion Week already?” the woman asks.

“Fashion Week?” I ask, then realize her question was triggered by my clothes.

“No. I bet you’re an actor, right?”

“Right. An actor.”

“You’re in a play?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Which one?”

I’m backed into a corner. Theater is a subject I have paid little attention to. It wasn’t an extravagance my family could afford. But I do know a few titles. “As You Like It.”

The woman cocks her head. “Shakespeare? Which theater?”

I’m saved from answering by the ding of the bell and the doors opening. I start to step off but the man by the panel says, “Not the lobby yet, buddy.”

I move back in and press against the wall as several more people enter the lift, separating me from the inquisitive couple. One of those closest to me takes a long look at my clothes but says nothing.

Thankfully, the rest of the journey is made in silence. When the doors open again, I wait until I see the light in the L button turn off before I join the other passengers filing out.

Following signs marked EXIT, I pass through a door into a large room with dozens of chairs, most of which are occupied. At the far end of the room are several glass doors. Through them, I see fading daylight. Before I can feel any relief, I notice the police officers who visited me standing off to the side, one of them holding something to his ear that he appears to be talking into. It looks like a com-phone but it’s smaller than any I’ve ever seen.

I slow my pace so I can hide behind a group headed toward the exit, and arrive outside unseen.

As I move away from the entrance, I look around. A parking area full of strange vehicles stretches out from the medical facility’s entrance. I’m surprised by how different they are from the carriages I know, but it’s the variety that’s the most shocking. Dozens of different colors and shapes and sizes. Where did they all come from?

One of the vehicles drives by me, its motor humming in an unfamiliar way. There’s only one person inside, which at first makes me think he must be no lower than a Four, but the vehicle itself is dented and scratched in a way no one of that social standing would be caught in.

“Either move out of the way or walk,” a man says as he steps around me, his shoulder brushing roughly against my arm.

I look around and realize he’s not the only one who’s had to alter his course to avoid bumping into me. But before I can step to the edge of the walkway, a voice shouts, “Hey! You!”

I turn toward it, and see one of the police officers has exited the medical facility and is looking in my direction.

When we lock eyes, he yells, “Stay where you are!”

A rush of adrenaline shoots through my body. I ignore his command and sprint in the opposite direction.

“Hey! Stop!”

For a few seconds, I weave in and out of the other pedestrians, then it dawns on me that I can make better time if I cut into the street. A horn blares from one of the vehicles and the driver shouts something through his window, but I don’t even look in his direction as I keep running. A few more drivers honk but most don’t seem to care that I’m in the middle of the street.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” The police officer again.

His voice sounds farther away so I chance a look. He, too, is in the street, but he’s older than I am and fatter so he’s already slowing.

Instead of easing up, I increase my speed. Ahead is an intersection with a traffic-control system that’s both familiar and not. The ones I’m used to are mounted horizontally and the lights are green, orange, and red. The one ahead of me is vertical with red on top, yellow in the middle, and green at the bottom.

Red still seems to mean stop, though, so when the light turns that color, I cut across the road and continue down the new street. After a block, my breaths start feeling heavy, and my days spent unconscious begin to catch up to me.

My run becomes a jog, then a walk, and then a shuffle before I finally stop.

Panting, I glance back. No police.

I rest my hands on my hips and try to catch my breath. What I’d really like to do is find someplace I can lie down for a while, but I know that’s the effect of the pill and I need to fight it.

Once my breathing is under control, I take a better look around. Both sides of the street are lined with shops — restaurants with signs that read ITALIAN and DELI and COFFEE and ESPRESSO, something called 7-Eleven, several clothing stores, and others I can’t identify.

Have I stumbled into an area reserved for the upper castes? I could almost believe that, if not for the makeup of the crowd sharing the walkway with me, not to mention the trio of vagabonds I can see from where I’m standing.

What the hell is going on here? Where in God’s name am I?

One of Marie’s lessons forces its way through my growing confusion. We were in Rome, somewhere in the 1700s, surrounded by so much history that I couldn’t hide my excitement.

“It’s easy to get overwhelmed,” she said. “But that’s when mistakes are made. Stay within yourself. Take in everything step by step.”

Step by step, I tell myself. Get the Chaser, and then figure out what’s going on.

I close my eyes and concentrate until one thing rises above the others: 244 Rosemary Avenue.