The doctor, Simmons, kicked me out of the hospital yesterday. He told me they needed the space, but in the two weeks I’ve been out of a coma, I haven’t seen a single other patient here. At least not on my floor. Without my wallet or credit cards or phone I had no way to pay for my treatment, not that any of those would work. So it was understandable, I guess. “We’re not running a damn charity here, pal,” he said.

  I asked him about a train or a bus, some way to get me out of this place. He gave a sort of chuckle and said, “No trains go through Elk Valley, son.” The chuckle turned into a cough as he lit a cigarette and walked out, still laugh-coughing, shaking his head from side to side.

  Until I can figure out how to get out of this place, I’d need somewhere to stay. Elsie gave me a tip on an open room at Mrs. Grady’s boarding house. It’s the type of place that has a few other similarly aged bachelors, an enforced curfew, and absolutely no female visitors or fun of any type. But we do get three square meals and a private room. Besides, it’s only temporary.

  I’ve only really had one day to process the bombshell Elsie dropped on New Years Eve, but if I’m honest, I’m kind of shocked at how easy it feels to accept this new reality. The first night, after that kiss, I didn’t sleep. I laid in my stiff hospital bed under those scratchy sheets and stared out the window, watching the snowfall until the sun came up, thinking about my situation. My mind raced through every possibility: Is this a dream? Am I still in a coma? Did I travel through time? Go through a wormhole? Is it just some extremely elaborate prank? Am I fucking dead? But most importantly, how do I get back. Eventually I began to accept my new reality. Or maybe it was just the sleep depravation. I’m in a different year. Or maybe the town is in a different year? But it feels… somehow… normal. I’ve seen too many time travel movies.

  Elsie helped me “move in” to Mrs. Grady’s, which involved providing me with a couple sets of clothes from the hospital’s lost and found, then walking me the four blocks to the boarding house. Mrs. Grady, a slender, hawkish woman in her 70s, answered the door and explained the many rules of “Grady Manor,” as she called it. I almost choked my Coca-Cola when she told me, “The cost of room and board will be two dollars a week.” If only my apartment back home were so cheap. Still, it was two bucks I didn’t have.

  Elsie was nice enough to float me the first week’s rent, but I’d have to get a job if I wanted to get back on my feet. Lucky for me, Elsie had a line on that too. This evening I had my first shift at the drive-in. I’m the new projectionist in training. We played two movies: The Man Who Knew Too Much, and Invasion of the Body Snatchers. The latter of which filled my head with insane new theories about my situation.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  When I left the drive-in to walk home, something happened that felt right out of a movie. This greaser guy and a couple of his buddies were hanging out by his baby blue Chevy One-Fifty. The main guy was leaning against the driver side door, leather jacket, cigarette, slicked back hair, the whole nine. They stared me down as I walked by and I did my best to ignore it. After I passed, I heard foot steps in the snow behind me and in an instant I was on my hands and knees in the muddy slush.

  “Emmett, right? Stay the fuck away from Elsie.”

  He flicked his cigarette into the slush next to me, his statement emphasized by the sizzle of the tiny ember dying in the snow. I almost laughed out loud at how comically cliché it all was. But then I remembered that one of my two pairs of pants were now effectively ruined.

  Back at the boarding house everyone was already asleep. I was a little past my curfew, which was a generous 10 P.M., but I hoped Mrs. Grady would make an exception since I had to work. In my room I made myself as comfortable as I possibly could, and then, it being only my second night there, I decided to snoop around my new digs. I investigated every nook and cranny in the tiny bedroom. The extremely small writing desk, the wardrobe with my remaining shirt and pants, the worn and ratty chest at the foot of the bed containing a wool blanket and a spare set of sheets. It all seemed very… authentic. So, not an extremely elaborate prank. Probably.

  I nearly gave up my search when I heard the floor squeak near the nightstand, my bare foot registering the slightest movement in the floorboard underneath. I turned on the bedside lamp and got down on my hands and knees to investigate. Sure enough, there were tiny scratches, abrasions along the outer edge of this one floorboard. I looked around the room to find anything thin I could use to pry it open, but there was nothing. I had to see what was hidden here.

  I snuck out to the kitchen to find a butter knife but found Mrs. Grady instead, standing in the dark in her nightgown and curlers, stirring an empty pot on the stove with a wooden spoon. I nearly jumped out of my fucking skin. I stood completely still, so as not to anger the demon that surely possessed the rigid old woman.

  “Dinner’s ready,” she droned, picking up the empty pot and walking out of the kitchen and into the dining room. I used the opportunity to quietly snag myself a butter knife from the silverware drawer and sneak back into my quarters.

  I stopped in my tracks again, listening for any kind of indication she heard me or woke up from her sleepwalk. When the coast was clear I walked over to the loose floorboard and pried it open, finding an old whiskey box nestled snugly in the floor. My heart was racing. My adrenaline was already up from the kitchen, now whose secret’s was I about to uncover?

  I carefully slid the lid off and looked inside. What I found was truly astonishing. Pictures, drawn on cocktail napkins and scraps of notebook paper in pen, pencil, and crayon. Pictures of the modern world. Of my world. Modern cars, city-scapes, even one that was definitely an iPhone. Then there were pictures of people in modern clothing, drawn with detail by a competent hand. Except for the faces. They were all smeared and blank, like the artist couldn’t remember their features, and that frustrated him. I stared in awe at these drawings, hypnotized by the mystery.

  And then I heard a knock at the door.

  - Emmett Brewer, projectionist in training