OCTOBER 24, 2022 – (Cont.) With that I buttoned my suit coat, zipped up my laptop case, and walked out, kicking the door so hard my foot would surely hurt for a week. It’s take me longer, I feared, to get over the scuff mark on my shoe.
What happened next I couldn’t have anticipated—except, perhaps, in my wildest dreams. The floor shook so violently, I was thrown to my knees. The sound blast of an unidentifiable cataclysm shattered my hearing, as I choked on a thick cloud of . . . volcanic ash. Except I was in Florida, a long way from the Volcanic Caribbees.
In the eerie silence that followed, I waited for the dust to settle. On hands and knees, I turned and crawled back toward the Don’s office, which now was filled with a mountain of debris. Joist stubs and plaster dangled from the ceiling, the drapes and walls were powdered gray, and the windows were displays of splintered glass. My eyes stung, and my mouth was full of grit. When I gained sufficient orientation, I realized in astonishment the cause of the explosion: a collapse of the ceiling from the weight of thousands of banker boxes stored in the cavernous room above the office. I blinked more to read some of the labels on the top of the heap. . . “CLASSIFIED DOCUMENTS.” Among the crushed cardboard below the top, was the most startling of all: the inscription, “TOP SECRET – PUTIN PAYMENTS/CORRESPONDENCE.”
I crawled around the mountain of . . . new evidence . . . and saw a leg sticking out at the bottom. The foot was missing its sock and shoe. Next to the foot was a pen. I picked up the instrument and drew it back and forth across the arch of the foot. There was no response. I didn’t notice a bone spur, but it could well have been on the other foot, which lay under the rubble.
Then everything went dark. As in a dream, I couldn’t tell for how long I’d lost consciousness.
“Excuse me sir,” said the voice. I woke with a start. “Your seatbelt needs to be tight. We’ll be landing soon.” I blinked and looked around. It took me a moment to grasp my whereabouts: I was squeezed into a seat in the back of an airplane. Then I realized that the meeting with the client and and the violent intrusion of evidence had all been a dream.
But where was I flying from and to? I had no idea and felt a surge of panic. Was I losing my mind? I peered out the window for visual clues and saw farm fields pass underneath. Soon a river appeared, then more farm fields, and eventually, sprawling housing developments, streets and commercial centers, a regional park, and a divided highway filled with traffic.
Soon after landing, I woke up . . . again . . . this time, for real. As I poured some morning java, I realized what great material I now had for my next therapy session.
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
