The book, a handsome hardcover tome of four hundred and nineteen pages, fell squarely on Chad’s head. That was a salient fact. Any questions beyond that, why him? why just then? would have died a farcical death of shortcoming, the true precipitant outside the umwelt of human experience.
The first question, “Are you okay?” was uttered by Kennedy DuMont a few seconds later, still dressed in her nurse’s uniform, on her way home after a grueling night-shift of effusive note-taking. She was tired beyond exhausted, but witnessing the event, all thoughts of sleep scurried away into the ether like a dragonfly winging its escape from a falcon, her attention fully absorbed by the thud the book made striking Chad’s head.
He shouted out an, “Aw fuck!” and staggered, instinctively bringing his hands to his scalp in a demonstration of too little too late.
Quickening her pace to a sprint, she closed the distance between them until she could hear him loudly sucking air between his teeth, could see him squinching his eyes in response to the impact. Now within earshot, she asked, “Are you okay?” the concern in her voice apparent.
“On the verge of ludicrous, your question, don’t you think?” Chad chided, speaking with a decidedly British accent. “Of course, I’m not okay!”
“Here, let me have a look. I’m a nurse.”
Chad’s need for assuagement grappled with reluctance for control of his muscles until, the struggle decided with a clear victor, his hands inched away very slowly, bringing them to eye level, there to take a peek at his palms and inspect for traces of blood before bowing his head and exposing the point of impact to Kennedy.
Even that small muscular realignment exacerbated the sharp pain in his temples and he hissed its presence in a protracted, whistling exhale. Obscenely urgent, his eyes shut tight, prompted by thoughtless instinct. Tears eked their way from them, falling onto the pavement. A moment later, compounding his suffering, Kennedy’s act of ruffling his hair to more closely inspect the scalp caused Chad’s heart to race as the pain spring-boarded hair root to hair root, and it was all he could do to not shout out another expletive in deference to her close proximity.
“Aha!” she exclaimed, “Found it!”
On the verge of asking, “Found what?” he was immediately dumbstruck by the sensation of the pain vanishing, carried upon the gentle gust of her pursed lips whooshing, as she blew on the exact spot where his head had been impacted. Disbelieving, he furrowed his brow and, lifting his head, asked, “Who are you?” Incredulity framed the question with its inflection.
“Kennedy,” she replied, “Kennedy DuMont. And you?”
“Chad,” he answered, “Chad Dingle.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” she said, her eyes smiling.
“That may be,” he answered with a haughty huff, “but you didn’t answer my question, not exactly. Who are you?”
“I just told you, Ken—”
“No—nuh uh. That’s your name. What did you… how did you do that?”
“I told you that too; I’m a nurse.”
Chad took hold of her arms just below her shoulders and stared intently at her pleasing face. “Look, Ms. DuMont, I may have been recently attacked by an angry piece of literature,” he began, his colloquial British phrasing lending an air of sophistication to his complaint, “but I can assure you my faculties remain in proper working order. At the risk of repetition, I asked who you were and you told me your name, and then, asking how you managed to blow the throbbing pain away, you explained you’re a nurse! Neither answer suffices.”
A smile spread across Kennedy’s face as she shrugged. “They may not suffice, and yet they must suffice.”
Blankly, Chad stared at her, wondering if maybe his assertion regarding his faculties might have been premature. Concussion? *Nothing about her answer made any sense. Must suffice? “Excuse me, Ms. DuMo—”
“Kennedy is fine,” she cut in.
“Kennedy then, I think I need to see a doctor. I seem to be caught up in an errant stream of consciousness, where little beyond the physicality of you and me standing here is making any sense.”
Kennedy nodded. “I suppose you’re thinking caused by the blow to your head?”
“Exactly!”
“I assure you, a doctor’s prognosis will be of little use to you.”
“Assure me?! That’s rich. Under whose authority?”
“The author’s,” she replied simply.
Chad took a step back, let go any contact between them, a look of worried horror twisting his face. “There you go… *we *go again!” His tone grew loud and menacing. “What are you on about? And if you don’t answer straightaway, you shall regret this continued obfuscation!”
She pointed down to the pavement and the book lying forgotten on the sidewalk. “There’s your answer.”
He could brook no more of it. “Are you implying I asked for this book to clunk me on the head?”
“No… you didn’t ask for it; it asked for you!”
Chad’s face flushed with outrage; Kennedy watched closely before bending over and taking the closed book in her hands. His response was in keeping with his villainous character, his mercurial temper responsible for the fate of his own making.
She thrust it at him. “Open it!” she commanded, her strict tone implying no argument would be tolerated.
Ready to pounce on her presumption, he acquiesced instead, riffling through the book instead. “The pages,” he exclaimed, looking down at them. “They’re blank!”
“Yes… yes they are. Ever since you escaped.”
Once again, it seemed reality was spinning away, the words making sense but not the context. “Escaped? Escaped from where?”
“From in here,” she answered, tapping gently on the pages.
“I… I don’t understand.”
Reaching up, she stroked his face, her voice sweet, calming. “Sure you do; you remember. She paused for a moment, her hands now caressing his temples. “Remember.”
The flood of recollection, a torrent of images rushing at him with almost physical force, dizzied him.
He’d been incarcerated and they’d deliberately had two lackeys arrested for holding up a convenience store so they could get inside and kill him. He knew it, had learned about their plan, and realized that not even jail would protect him, realizing his death was imminent. His life had come down to one choice: die or escape.
Yes, he remembered now, remembered finding some mugwort on the outskirts of the fence. Then, skirting the outside the novel, he chewed and swallowed it. Awash in new-found vitality, he willed himself right out of the pages of the book and into the world of the reader.
“I was about to… I have to die,” he conceded.
“Yes, I’m afraid you do. You don’t belong here.”
“But I don’t want to!” he objected
“No… no you don’t. But I make it quick, I promise.”
“What do you mean you make it—?” He never finished the question, catching from the corner of his eye the name of the book, *Nowhere to Hide *and the author’s name directly below it, Kennedy DuMont.