wouldn’t understand if I tried to explain it.”
“I can’t believe it, I’m in a coma,” he repeated, stunned.
The man stood up and put his hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Tell you what, I have a couple things that I want to do, so I’ll be right outside. Why don’t you gather up your questions and meet me out there. Your clothes are hanging inthe closet over there, and you’ll find your boots there, too. When you’re ready, just find your way out.”
“Okay” was all Tony could manage, hardly glancing up as the man slipped out of the room. It strangely made sense. If he was in a coma, then these occurrences were only expressions of deep subconscious wanderings. He would remember none of it. None of this was real, or true. The thought reminded him of Irishman Jack, and he grinned to himself. The realization was attended by a sense of relief. At least he wasn’t dead.
He slurped his latte. It certainly tasted real, but there must be triggers in the brain that could stimulate other parts like memory and together could manufacture a pseudoreality, like drinking coffee, or, he thought as he reached for a Mango Tango and took a bite, like one of these. Wow, if you could package this somehow, you could make a killing—no calories, no coffee or sugar side effects, and no supply-chain issues.
He shook his head at the sheer lunacy of this experience, if it could even be categorized as one. Does an event that isn’t real and will never be remembered qualify as an experience?
With the last bite of donut, Tony felt it was time to face what awaited him on the other side of the door. Though he assuredly would remember none of this, here he was, with nothing to lose by going along with whatever this was. So he quickly dressed, grateful his imagination supplied warm water to wash his face. Taking a deep breath, he stepped outside the bedroom.
He found himself emerging from the wing of a rambling ranch-style house that had seen better days. Paint was flaking off the woodwork and everything felt tired. Sad and tidy, it was much below the standard to which Tony had grownaccustomed and definitely was not ostentatious or pretentious. His room opened onto a wide wraparound deck, it, too, worse for wear. The stranger stood leaning against the railing, picking at his teeth with a piece of grass, waiting.
Tony joined him and looked out over the expanse of property. It was an odd mix, this place. Parts of it looked somewhat managed but much of it was unkempt and disorganized. Behind nearby broken fencing he noticed the barely recognizable suggestion of an abandoned garden overrun by thistle and thorn and dense weeds, an ancient oak at its center from which hung a dilapidated children’s swing barely moving in the breeze. Beyond that lay an old orchard, unpruned and fruitless. In general, the land looked worn and abused, spent. Thankfully, patches of mountain wildflowers and the occasional rose had populated some of the worst scars, as if softening a loss or grieving a death.
Probably something wrong with the soil, Tony surmised. It seemed water and sun were in supply but so much depends on what lies beneath the surface. The breeze shifted and Tony picked up the unmistakable scent of daphne, sweet and gentle, a reminder of his mother. It was her favorite plant.
If, as he suspected, all this was a manifestation of his brain trying to find its way by connecting stored thoughts and images, it made sense that he felt a surprising, unexpected ease here. Something here called to him, or at least resonated. “Safe” had been the word this man had spoken over him. Not exactly a word he would have chosen.
“What is this place?” he asked.
“It’s a habitation,” the man responded, looking into the distance.
“A habitation? What exactly is a habitation?”
“A place to dwell, to abide, to be at home in, a habitation.” The man said these words as if he loved this place.
“Home? Huh, that’s something Jack said about this
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