The Donovan Experience

Ⅰ

A breeze trickled through the half-cracked window, wafting pleasant morning smells through the room. The musical trill of morning birds rang out from distant treetops. The sun peeked through dusty blinds, casting a lone ray onto a sleeping figure. A hand reached out lazily to block the light while the body it was attached to writhed in an early morning stretch.

Beau cracked an eye open as sleep began to wear off. He stared blankly at the ceiling for a moment before rolling over and grabbing his phone from the night stand. Scrolling through news feeds proved to be a frustrating experience first thing in the morning, all doom and gloom. He connected to the bluetooth speaker on his dresser and set his music app to shuffle. The silky tones of a late-nineties R&B singer replaced the bird calls from outside, but soon competed with the rumbling A/C unit that fought to keep the apartment livable.

Beau threw the covers back and sat up, wiping drool and sleep from his face. He paused, brain attempting to fire up, when suddenly he felt as though he’d jumped head first into ice water. Now fully awake, his eyes darted around the room. His hands took on a mind of their own, slapping his arms and legs, then his face, as he began to panic.

“Wait, this… this can’t be…” he said, as his heart threatened to leap out of his chest.

He rose and walked shakily across the floor to the connected bathroom, flipping the light switch and freezing as his reflection appeared in the mirror before him. A youthful face stared back, clean shaven and full of life. He touched his hair, a full head of it with all its color. He leaned back against the wall and slid slowly to the floor. Head in hands, Beau’s mind raced as he processed his reality. He’d fallen asleep as Beau Deacon, New York Time’s Bestselling Author, a man well into his forties who’d owned his own home for many years now. He’d seemingly awoken as Beau Deacon, unemployed but aspiring writer who lived at Quail Perch, Apartment 32B. Or, in other terms, Beau Deacon, ten years ago. The figure in the mirror was certainly himself, only a decade younger.

Beau dry-heaved into the toilet, then grabbed the sink and pulled himself up. He gripped the cold porcelain, sweating profusely, and looked at his reflection again. With effort, he tore his gaze away from the unbelievable sight and stumbled back into the bedroom. Propping himself against the dresser, his gaze tore about the room. It was exactly as he remembered. Band posters were thumb-tacked to the walls, covering the “landlord special” paint job. Various articles of clothing were strewn about, forming a makeshift poly-cotton rug on the floor.

He ventured from the bedroom into the living-dining-kitchen combo room and paused. A shaky laugh escaped his lips as took in what could not be. Just like the bedroom, the rest of the apartment was exactly as he remembered. A thrifted TV sat on a tiny faux-wood entertainment center in one corner, with a ragged fabric couch facing the only other window in the apartment. At the other end from the TV, pressed against the wall, was a small dining table with a parquet wood top, lazily covered by a plastic tablecloth. Two wooden chairs that might’ve seen the Reagan administration flanked the table on either open side.

Behind the couch was the kitchen, separated from the living and dining area by a half-wall that doubled as a countertop. Dishes were piled in the sink, and the top of the cabinet above the fridge was home to a nest of liquor bottles. Beau imagined he knew exactly what was in the fridge. Likely an opened jug of milk, various packages of parmesan, and perhaps a salad from a fast-food joint. His mind on the verge of shutting down completely, he crossed to the fridge on autopilot and wrenched the door open. A half-empty gallon of milk, expired, a plastic shaker bottle of parmesan, two opened wedges of aged parmesan, and an open can of lager.

“Still mostly right,” he thought. He tried to laugh at having two forms of the same cheese, but the sound that came out more closely resembled a strangled goose.

He held the fridge door open a while longer, the cool air marginally calming his frayed nerves. He let the door shut and turned back to the living room. Running his hands over his smooth face gave him a thought. Hadn’t he gone to bed with a full beard? He raced through the small apartment to the bathroom. Once more in front of the mirror, he examined himself more thoroughly, starting with his hair. Last night his hair had been black with gray at the temples, and, much to his chagrin, his hairline had recently started to make a break for it. Now though, his hairline looked better than it ever had. The hair was thick too, and jet black. Had it ever looked that nice…?

His facial hair was completely shaved, but if Beau focused hard enough, he could imagine the thick, black beard that he’d went to bed with. Looking closer, he couldn’t even see the tan line one would expect when shaving their beard in the summer, and just last week he’d gone camping with a group of friends. His skin was all one shade of tan, with no sign of the scratches or bug bites he was sure he could still feel.

Beau then removed his shirt and examined his arms and torso. He’d always been decently athletic, but that was genetics. In recent years he’d taken up cycling and hiking to stay in shape, but now his body reminded him of his soccer days in high school. He was thinner than he remembered, but with low body fat, and his muscles rippled under his skin as he moved under the fluorescent light. He found himself smiling slightly; surely he hadn’t looked this good even in his prime. As he twisted and turned, he noticed an inconsistency that brought him back to the present. On the camping trip last week, he had scrambled down a rocky trail after a dropped water bottle and skinned his back along the left shoulder blade. Looking at the spot now, though, it was as though it had never happened. Beau poked and prodded his skin, feeling no evidence of the wound that had stained his shirt and backpack with blood.

He ran his hand through his hair, trying to figure out just what the hell was going on. With no ideas coming to mind, he threw on a wrinkled shirt and a pair of athletic shorts and headed for the front door. Putting on a pair of slides, he stepped out onto the landing in front of his apartment. His was the “B” of the “A-B” apartment pairs, with the “A” apartments being on ground level and “B” on the second. There were four apartment pairs to a shared breezeway, two on top and two on bottom. He looked at the apartment across from his and received another mental shock — the autumn wreath hanging on the door of apartment 33B shouldn’t be there. Not because it was the middle of summer, because historically that wreath hung year round. It shouldn’t be there because the woman who lived in that apartment died right before Beau had moved out of the complex, almost a decade ago.

Beau glanced around to see if anyone was outside, but he stood alone in the morning glow. He stepped up to the door with the wreath, hands shaking. He raised a trembling fist that hung in the air for multiple heartbeats before rapping a sharp knock on the thin door. He waited, anxiety returning in waves. The door remained shut, silence broken only by the ambient sounds of morning traffic and apartment cooling units. Beau quickly knocked again, waiting only a few seconds this time before giving up and running down the staircase to the landing below. He froze, finding himself facing yet another surprise. A small, early aughts SUV was parked in the spot directly in front of him. It was a dull maroon, with chipped clear coat and balding tires. There was no window tint, which reminded Beau of the nickname he gave this car when he owned it a decade ago: The Fishbowl.

Stepping around the driver’s side, he glanced around at the apartments. Seemingly alone, he peered inside the vehicle. A cable hanging from the cassette port sent Beau’s mind back in time. It would be connected to a cassette tape that linked the car to a phone to play music, for those older cars with no bluetooth or 3.5mm port. The front seats had multi-color boho blanket covers, and the tell-tale red and white of a pack of Reds was peaking out from underneath the handbrake. He rounded the car, moving to the rear window. The vehicle came with a rolling shade that blocked view of the trunk area, given that this model had hatch glass and a swinging tailgate.

“I’d bet all my money there’s a twelve-inch subwoofer and amp back there,” he thought, trying to stare a hole through the pleather shade.

Beau looked around the vehicle a while longer before he was struck by a thought. He ran back up the stairs to the apartment, not bothering to close the door, before dashing back out, holding a key ring aloft. He jangled the keys the whole way down the steps, detaching a colorful lanyard from the ring and stashing it in his pocket. He paused at the driver’s door, looking at the keys. The array of silver, gold, and brass colored keys that weighed down the ring could have been used as cannon shot in a naval battle. Splitting off the car key and two keys he thought went to the apartment to a smaller ring, he stowed the rest in his pocket.

There was no fob with the car key, but he couldn’t remember if he’d ever had one. Hesitating only a moment, he pushed the key into the door lock and turned it. A satisfying THUNK sounded, accompanied by the manual lock shooting up from the door. With a grin, Beau opened the door, hinges creaking exactly how he remembered. He hopped into the driver’s seat, finding the seat and mirrors perfectly adjusted to his height. He ran his hands over the hard plastic trim, then the steering wheel. With a frown he pulled his hands back, bits of black plastic from the steering wheel were everywhere. Beau gave a slight chuckle; he’d never gotten around to getting a wheel cover. He got out, practically running to the trunk. He unlocked the door, pushing the back glass up and swinging the tailgate out to the left. He pulled on the shade, unlocking it and letting it retract into its roll. What he saw made him smile more than he thought he could today.

A large, round speaker was mounted in a wooden box that was upholstered in gray speaker carpet. Next to it, mounted on the back of the rear bench seat was a metal box with wires coming out of the left side. Just as he’d thought, the subwoofer and amplifier he’d installed were there. Admiring his handiwork, he let himself feel good for a brief moment. A good sound system could make up for not having the newest car, in his opinion. It was certainly not like the vehicle he had now, which came stock from the factory with a specially designed sound system…

Anxiety washed over Beau again as the cognitive dissonance of the day descended upon him once more. Suddenly he felt as though he was being watched. Not immediately seeing anything amiss as his eyes darted over the lot, he slammed the tailgate shut, just barely catching himself from slamming the back window. Gently closing it, he began to spin in a slow circle, taking in the sights and sounds. There were cars parked around the lot, but none right next to his. He frowned at this. Curbside spots were at a premium in a complex like this, but most of the vehicles were parked on the back row, next to the wooden fence that separated the complex from the neighborhood behind. Just as he’d turned back toward his breezeway, his vision hawked in on a sliver of movement. Just his imagination…? Beau shook his head; something had just gone around the corner of his apartment on the other side of his breezeway.

He grabbed both sets of keys in his hands to stop them from jangling and rushed through the breezeway, coming out into the open courtyard between apartment buildings. Looking to the left as he turned the corner, he just managed to glimpse a figure disappearing off the sidewalk into the next breezeway over. He sprinted down the pavement in time to see the figure unlocking an apartment door.

“H-hey! HEY!” he called to the figure, his need for answers outweighing his anxiety.

The person started, looking over their shoulder at him. As Beau closed in, he could make out more details. The person, a young woman, had her hair tied back and wore an all-black outfit. She turned back to the door, throwing it open. Beau just made out what he thought was a walkie talkie on her belt when the woman practically dove into the apartment, slamming the door behind her. He stopped on the sidewalk, stunned, then ran up to the door. Banging on the wood, he noticed this door was a lot heavier than his neighbor’s. He hit his fist upon the door until it began to hurt, with no response. Looking around, he didn’t see anyone poking their head out to observe the commotion, which further convinced him something was amiss. People in apartment complexes like this one never missed a chance to rubberneck when drama was happening.

Beau moved around to the outside of the apartment, attempting to peek through a gap in the blinds. He then realized there were no blinds, in their place were what appeared to be thick blackout curtains. With still no sign of nosy neighbors, he gave the mysterious apartment one last glance before trudging back to his own.

He sank down onto the living room couch, mind so overstimulated it seemed to be blank. The information that’d been forced upon him since waking that morning was so reality-shattering that his brain refused to process anything else. When he finally regained a sense of consciousness, he was surprised to hear his stomach grumble. Still feeling numb, he ransacked the kitchen for anything edible. He was on his second bite from a block of aged parmesan when a moldy flavor kicked him in the tastebuds. Once he was done spitting into the sink and scrubbing his tongue with his fingers, he decided more investigation of his current situation was needed. After going through the pockets of every pair of pants on the bedroom floor, he found his wallet under his nightstand. He turned it over in his hands, same old worn leather wallet his mom gave him on his thirteenth birthday. He smiled at that. It had felt like a turning point then, the start of him becoming a man.

He’d started to wonder where that wallet was, given that he’d lost it last month, when his brain snapped back to the present. The wallet was in his hand. He didn’t have his new metal wallet that only held credit cards. Letting the hand with the wallet drop to his side, he looked up to the ceiling, face screwed up, trying not to start crying. He rubbed his temples furiously with his other hand until he felt like he was in control again. Letting out a deep sigh, he opened his wallet to check the contents. Inside were a couple business cards from local writing workshops, a debit card, and some paper money stuffed into the bill fold.

Beau’s mouth moved side to side in a tight grimace, as it often did when he was thinking hard. He walked to the desk in the corner of his bedroom, which was currently being used to hold a mountain of clean clothes yet to be put away. Tossing the clean clothes to the floor with the dirties, he found what he was looking for. His aging laptop sat on the desk, a dull gray machine that needed to stay plugged in since the battery was shot. He’d written his first few books on the thing, before upgrading to a better machine after the checks started clearing. He sat down on the decrepit office chair he’d rescued from a school dumpster one summer. Chair springs creaking, he found himself calming down a bit more. This desk setup had gotten him through the roughest part of his life. On the brink of becoming homeless and giving up on writing altogether, he’d spent many sleepless nights plugging away by lamplight. It gave him a sense of familiar comfort.

He flipped the laptop screen up and hit the power button. He entered his password without thinking, muscle memory taking over. Beau listening to the whirring of the internal fan while he waited for the laptop to decide it was indeed the correct combination. When the image finally changed to his home screen, he couldn’t help but laugh once more at the absurdity he was seeing. At this time in his life, he’d set his word processor to open to the last document he’d worked on when the machine was fired up. In this case, it opened to what he immediately recognized as the penultimate chapter in the first book he’d published, West, Beyond Death. He scanned the page, noting slight mistakes and sentences he’d later reworked with his editor. Beau sat back in his chair, mind once again reeling. This was all a decade in the past… wasn’t it? How could it all have been a dream?

He hit the save button on the word processor out of habit before closing out of the document. After waiting what felt like thirty minutes for his web browser to load, he discovered he had enough money to buy lunch, and also enough credit card debt to finance a small military. He sat with his head in his hands once more. This period in his life was ruled by financial anxiety, which in turn fueled the substance abuse he’d later kicked — with the help of trained specialists and therapy. That thought made him sit bolt upright in the chair. An image of a red and white pack of smokes under the handbrake of his car outside flashed in his mind. He checked the classic brown alarm clock with red numbers on his bedside table, it read 11:27 AM. He frowned, he’d been awake since dawn and hadn’t felt the need for a smoke. Of course, he hadn’t smoked in about five years, but when he’d moved from this apartment his deposit had been confiscated to pay for paint to cover the cigarette discoloration.

He threw on a pair of socks and running shoes, then grabbed the ring with his apartment and car keys. Jamming a dirty ball cap on his head, Beau exited the apartment with an overwhelming sense of confusion. He paused, a deep frown finding its way onto his face. Underneath the confusion there was a deep anger building. He didn’t understand what was happening, but there were enough questions raised that he was sure he hadn’t dreamed the last ten years. He jogged down the stairs, once again looking around the complex for signs of people. Some of the cars were gone, and some were in different spots, but he still didn’t see anybody out and about.

Beau got in the car, grabbing his phone from his back pocket. He investigated it more closely now that his hackles were up. When he picked it up this morning, it was so familiar that no red flags were raised. Scrolling through the apps, texts, call log, and open web pages, it all looked familiar. It had been so long that he couldn’t be sure how accurate it was. What wasn’t accurate, and he was sure of it, was the screen protector. He hadn’t started buying screen protectors until after his first book deal. In fact, this particular phone’s screen had been cracked in the bottom corner for almost as long as he’d owned it. It was easy to remember because frequent use would rub Beau’s thumb raw. This phone’s screen was perfect, and had a screen protector installed. He turned the device over in his hand, it had the right case on it. Black and orange, the colors of his alma mater.

He gave a frustrated huff, realizing how thrown off he was by the whole situation. His phone had been with him this whole time, yet he hadn’t thought to try calling anyone. He dialed his mom’s number first, which went straight to voicemail. He frowned, she rarely missed a call. He tried another number, his friend Stevie from high school. This one rang once, then went to voicemail. Beau tried every number in his contact list, each with the same result. He grimaced, unsure as to what that meant.

He decided to send a text that read “Call me ASAP, SOS” to his close friends and family, hoping it was just a busy day for… everyone he knew.

He paused for a second before deciding to go ahead with an idea that had formed while listening to the various voicemail recordings. With a grimace, he dialed three numbers. 9-1-1. The line rang once, twice, then the feedback of someone answering hung in the air momentarily before a professional-sounding voice startled Beau.

“911, please give me your name, location and emergency,” came the voice, a woman, Beau thought.

Beau gaped at the phone, mouth opening and closing like a largemouth bass out of water.

He finally managed a response just as the woman started repeating her spiel.

“U-uh hi, yes, I’m so sorry I was messing with my phone and it dialed you guys,” he sputtered, not wanting to get fined for pranking the 911 operators.

“…Right. Well, please remember we need to keep the lines clear for real emergencies, sir,” the operator said.

Beau thought he could hear her eyes rolling.

“Yes ma’am absolutely. S-sorry about that… have a good day,” he said, hanging up with a grimace.

Beau set the phone down and grabbed the steering wheel, forcefully pressing himself back into the seat. He released the pressure and took a deep breath.

“This can’t be real… you can’t dream a whole decade that vividly, right?” He pondered this while turning the key in the ignition.

The engine turned over perfectly, which made Beau pause. He turned the engine off, then tried again. It started right back up, no issue. He drummed his fingers on the wheel. The vehicle had been good to him, but Beau often had to do some finagling with the battery to get it going. Starting up first try? That had been a pipe dream. Once again feeling like he was being watched, but still not seeing anyone about, he threw the shifter into reverse and backed out of the spot. He found himself looking at the cassette deck, then slamming on the brakes when he realized he’d almost backed into a car. Beau shook his head. He’d been looking at where the backup camera was on the infotainment system in his new car.

After idling through the complex parking lot, craning his neck around in an attempt to spot any people at all, he found himself at the main exit. He paused, although he could have pulled out in any direction he wanted, given there were no cars on the road in front of him. He listened to engine tick for a minute then reversed back into the parking lot. He creeched his tires as he pulled into a free spot in front of the apartment office. There were multiple cars parked out front; surely he could gain some information here.

Beau reached for the doorknob, then almost ran into the door itself. Assuming it would be unlocked, he meant to storm inside but the knob never turned in his hand. The door had multiple panes of glass built in to be welcoming and shine light through, but every single pane was covered in white plastic.

He noticed a handwritten note taped to the door jamb, which read, “WINDOWS JUST TINTED, OFFICE CLOSED FOR IN-PERSON BUSINESS.”

Beau scoffed. Surely the door could be open while tint cured, how would anyone drive freshly tinted cars otherwise? He banged on the door, with no response. He walked the perimeter of the building, attempting to see in but foiled by more tint protection on every window. There was no noise coming from the interior that he could hear either. Having no luck, he returned to his car and tore out of the lot. He paused again at the exit. Still seeing no cars on the street, he pulled a right and took off down the street.

The windows slid down as he mashed the buttons, blasting wind and heat into the cab. At least that was something he could count on. He was still having trouble processing the day’s events, but in this case the heat was familiar and comforting. The car’s A/C had never worked, so windows down was the key to surviving summer. He had a thought, and turned the A/C knob to the right. Air pushed out of the vents, hot as the air outside. Beau let it run for a minute, then shut it back off. He’d half-expected cold air.

Beau looked back at the road, then at the dash. With a start, he let off the gas. He was pretty sure this road was a 40 MPH zone and he’d clocked himself at 55. Looking around for any cops waiting to pounce, he was once again confronted with the lack of vehicles on the road. It was just past noon now, and this part of town was normally bustling at all hours. The road was dead. Plenty of cars were parked outside businesses, sure, but nobody entering or exiting the buildings or the cars. There were no panhandlers, sign wavers, or pedestrians of any sort to speak of. He cruised down the main thoroughfare for 15 minutes before pulling into the drive-through of his favorite fast food chain, Southern Stop. The lot was dead, and he had an inkling the lobby probably wasn’t open. Still, he was hungry, so no harm in trying.

Pulling up to the speaker, he planned to wait five minutes before trying another spot when there was inevitably nobody working the window.

He had just settled in when a woman’s voice came over the intercom, “Southern Stop, pop and you won’t stop, how may I take your order?”

Beau would have jumped straight through the roof of the car if he wasn’t buckled in, at least he thought. Startled, he stammered an unintelligible string of words.

“Come again?” said the voice over the intercom, sounded bored.

Beau collected himself, then said, “Uh yeah, hi… are you inside the building?” As soon as he finished the sentence he looked at himself in the side mirror, aghast.

There was a long silence from the intercom, then a different person spoke.

“Sir, if you’re going to creep out our workers you’re gonna have to keep it moving,” said a deep and booming male voice.

Beau stammered again. “No, I mean I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I really just want some food, if that’s okay,” he finally managed.

Another pause from the intercom, before the female voice came back over the intercom.

“Alright, what can I get you?” She sounded displeased at having to deal with Beau again.

“Just a chicken sandwich and a water please, and thank you,” Beau said, trying to sound as apologetic as he could.

“Pull around,” came the voice over the intercom.

Beau drove around the building to the pickup window, pasting what he hoped was an apologetic look on his face. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the hand the thrust the greasy brown bag and drink into his hand belonged to a large man who looked as though he practiced knife fighting skills for fun. Beau left the parking lot, but not before sneaking a look into the lobby. Empty, just as he’d guessed.

As he drove back to the apartment complex, he began to see other cars on the road. None of them ever got close enough for him to see the driver, of course, as they’d turn off onto a side street long before he could make anything out. He started trying to follow them down the streets after they turned, but inevitably lost track of them each time. Soon Beau found himself parked in front of his apartment building once more.

Beau entered the apartment feeling a level of exhausted he’d previously thought impossible. After trashing his lunch waste, he tossed his keys on the counter and laid down on the couch. Staring at the ceiling brought him no comfort but it did help him focus his thoughts. He slowly worked his way through the events of the day.

What did he know? He knew, or at least thought he knew, that last night he’d gone to bed a very different person than he was today. He was an accomplished writer, having paid the price of struggling to finally succeed and make a comfortable life for himself. He’d moved to another city, and owned his own house, living his best friend, a black lab named Maggie. Beau choked back a sob at this. Was he really facing what seemed to be a reality where he’d dreamed up a perfect life for himself, and now he didn’t even have his dog? His face screwed up once more, eyes wet with sadness. He massaged his face, forcing himself to breathe deep. A stab of guilt struck him as he thought about the recent past — he’d recently started seeing a wonderful woman, Stacey. They’d been dating for a couple months now, and Beau really enjoyed his time with her. It felt as though she brought out the best of him. He smacked himself on the forehead out of frustration. How long had he been messing around today, and only just now thought of Stacey and Maggs?

By the time Beau found himself able to think as relatively clearly, night had fallen. He sat up groggily. He knew he should probably eat again, but grief over the life he was beginning to believe he’d lost took away any hunger he might have felt. Beau was resigned at this point. He had hoped that this reality was the dream, and he would wake up with Maggie licking his face, ready for morning play time. That had not happened.

Dejected, he walked to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Going through the motions, he gave a humorless chuckle when he tasted the toothpaste. They didn’t make this brand anymore, a few years back the parent company was sued out of existence when it was found to contain unsafe levels of microplastics.

“Par for the course…” Beau thought idly.

He rinsed up, staring at himself in the mirror blankly. His face was haggard, much more so than that morning. It looked more like how his future-dream-past-self looked. He couldn’t decide how to refer to what might have been the most vivid lucid dream in human history.

Beau stood in front of his bed, absently scratching his chest. It didn’t look all that inviting, but he was wiped. He grabbed a pillow and blanket and went out to the couch, much like he’d done on sleepless nights to try and spark an idea for his book. Laying down, he settled in with a complete numbness. There were so many little incongruities that made him think the reality he’d awoken to was false, but the overall picture was pretty clear. He hadn’t made it big. He was still almost broke, still hadn’t published a book, and all the friends he’d made, the relationship he’d built with Stacey, even his dog… they were gone. Or, didn’t even exist in the first place.

He spent what must have been hours trying to push all thought from his mind in an attempt to fall asleep. When he finally found himself starting to doze, he was foiled by the environment. The window across from him had a half-moon arch at the top which wasn’t covered by the rectangular blinds. Ostensibly this was to let in ambient light, but all it really succeeded in was pissing him off by providing an unsolicited night light. At the moment, a street lamp outside was emitting what seemed to be most of its output directly into Beau’s apartment.

Beau grumpily grabbed his pillow and put it over his face, only to find he couldn’t breath like that. He turned over to his side, keeping the pillow over his head, but soon started to develop a crick in his neck. Huffing, he rolled onto his back and forced himself somewhat into the crack between the back and bottom cushions in order to prop the pillow up so it would block the light from his face. This only succeeded in making him feel like he was being swallowed by a man-eating couch.

Now fully awake and annoyed, he tossed his bedding to the floor and stomped into the bedroom, coming back with the comforter from his bed. Standing on tip toe, he stuffed the comforter into the gap above the blinds, taking care not to bring the whole operation crashing down. After a couple minutes of sweaty labor, he stepped back to survey his handiwork. Beau nodded, satisfied. Some light peaked in through the holes in the blinds that weren’t covered by the comforter, but it would do.

Beau laid back down, attempting to find comfort once more. He had just started to feel sleep come on when his eyes opened on their own. Frowning, he scanned the room for anything bright enough to wake him. He finally settled on the red light from the smoke detector in the corner of the room above the TV.

“You’re kidding,” Beau said, directing it at the light.

He tossed his blanket again, on a mission to get some sleep after the day he had, no matter the cost. He stumbled around the kitchen, opening drawers in the dark, trying to find the roll of electrical tape without turning on the light. The roll in question found, he felt his way back into the living space and over to the smoke detector. Careful not to run into the TV stand, he held a piece of tape in one hand and extended his other to the ceiling to feel for the plastic cover. His fingers brushed the popcorn ceiling, raining down tiny particles of whatever cancer-causing material the texture was made from. Beau squinted up at the light groggily, then realized he couldn’t see the light anymore. He brought his hand back down by his side, then blinked.

The light wasn’t visible. He backed up and scanned the ceiling, but saw nothing. With a start, he whirled around to face the kitchen. There, above the fridge, was the smoke detector, red light blinking intermittently. Fully awake again, he felt his way back over to the couch and sat down, peering up through the dark. From this vantage he could once more see the light that had awoken him. He knelt on the floor, crawling forward slowly, making sure the light was visible. A few times he lost it, needing to backtrack and find it again. After some trial and error, he found that three feet was the closest he could get without losing the light completely.

At his closest vantage point, Beau stood stock still, not wanting to lose the light again. He scanned the room around him, trying to keep his head as still as possible. His eyes settled on his prize— a screwdriver resting on the TV stand in front of him. He usually kept one around for tightening the screws on his thrifted furniture when they got loose. With an act of coordination that impressed himself even in the moment, Beau stuck a foot out and clutched the screwdriver between his toes, bringing his foot back to his body. Still keeping an eye on the light, he passed the screwdriver to his hand, then regained his balance. He took a deep breath, debating his next move.

With his arm fully extended, the screwdriver couldn’t have been more than six inches from where he thought the light was. With another deep breath to steady himself, he slid his right foot forward, put his weight on his left, and pushed off. With a lunge, he jammed the screwdriver directly into the spot the light was emitting from. He took a step back, craning his head around to catch a glimpse of the light but seeing nothing. He rushed over to the light switch and flipped it, then turned back to investigate his work.

The screwdriver was stuck in the ceiling at a 45-degree angle. A small cloud of popcorn texture was raining from the ceiling, dusting the TV stand and carpet. Beau approached the screwdriver and stared up at it. It looked as though he had just punched a hole in a perfectly normal, albeit cheap, ceiling. He thought for a minute, then decided. He’d just had the most devastating day of his life, and he was going to figure out what the light was if it was the last thing he did. So what if he tore up the ceiling for nothing? It’s not like things could get worse. At least then maybe someone would talk to him, even just to berate him for destruction of property.

Beau grasped the screwdriver and began to twist it, before thinking better. He went into the bedroom, grabbed an old pair of sunglasses, then returned. Sufficiently protected from eyeball irritants, he began twisting the tool back and forth. He frowned, confused. He thought popcorn ceiling was a sort of drywall with paint or pre-made texture, but the material he was working was not shearing like drywall. Particulate was still raining down, sure, but it felt more like he was trying to open a plastic security clamshell for an expensive electronic product. There was definitely a hole in the ceiling though, so he removed the screwdriver.

He waved the dust away from his face as best he could, then peered up into the gap he’d made. Beau’s mouth dropped open, then promptly filled with ceiling dust. Coughing and sputtering, he dirtied the carpet further with gritty spit. Wiping tears from his eyes, he covered his mouth as he looked back inside the hole in the ceiling. The red light was there, and now it was bright. It looked like it was coming from some sort of box, but the hole was too small to be sure.

Mystified, Beau looked around for another implement. He almost laughed when he spotted the perfect object, lying in the corner of the room. The apartment had come with one feature Beau was sure no tenant used— a fireplace. The lease stated the tenants were responsible for cleaning soot stains, which seemed egregious considering the apartments came with stains pre-installed. The upside, in this case, was that the fireplace also came with a rusty set of fireplace tools, including a poker. Beau removed the poker from the stand, and began poking the ceiling randomly around the hole. Most of it was definitely normal popcorn ceiling, he could tell by how soft it was. After he’d determined a roughly rectangular area where the material was different, he carefully wedged the hooked tip into the gap he’d made.

With a circular motion, the poker began to widen the hole in the ceiling. Beau was sure this was some sort of plastic now — it was stretching around the iron implement. When he’d wallowed out a six inch diameter hole, he brought the poker down to examine his work. The sight sent a shiver down his spine. The material he’d been destroying wasn’t really ceiling at all, it was a sort of plastic panel that was covering a roughly two foot cube recess. The cover panel itself looked like popcorn texture on the bottom, but now visible from the top were numerous angled holes drilled at extremely sharp angles. The best part, however, was the recess itself.

The walls and “ceiling” of the recess were all popcorn texture, assumedly to enhance the illusion. Attached with a bracket to the corner of the recess was the source of the red light, a short but sophisticated-looking video camera. Beau stared at the device, mind racing. A myriad of emotions came over him, culminating in a triumphant, primal scream aimed directly into the camera lens.

Ⅱ

Two hours later, the apartment was dismantled so effectively that a demolition crew would have little work left to complete the job. Holes pockmarked the ceiling, with more open recesses at regular intervals. White popcorn texture dust coated every surface in the place. Drywall had been ripped out, revealing stud boards. Every appliance was unplugged and damaged in some way. The fridge was missing both doors, the TV was smashed to pieces, and the microwave had found itself outside on the sidewalk below the living room window.

Piled on the small dining table was a mass of electronics. Cameras, microphones, cables, battery backups, enough to operate a network studio. Beau stood, hands on hips, before his bounty. Sweat soaked his shirt, dripping from his hair down his face. A smile born of vindication and rage was pasted across his face, and a manic gleam had worked its way into his eye.

He wasn’t going crazy. He had been right all along. His life still existed, at least somewhere. Certainly not here.

Ripping the surveillance equipment from the ceiling and walls had been cathartic, but it had also given Beau another idea. He slipped his shoes back on, grabbed his car keys and the screwdriver, then ran down to his car, not bothering to close the door behind him. He flicked the key in the lock twice to unlock all the doors, then flung open the rear driver’s side door. Jamming the screwdriver between the floor trim and the metal underneath, he popped the plastic panel off and examined the cavity underneath. Letting out an exuberant whoop, he raised his hands to the sky in victory.

The cables that ran along the channel in the frame, clearly audio cables for the sound system, were immaculate. Tied off neatly, with exactly the right length needed, they looked professional. Beau had done the audio work on this car, and he was terrible at cable management. By the end he’d been stuffing cables under the trim like dirty clothes under a bed.

The surveillance equipment had sealed the deal, but this confirmation was the cherry on the top. He didn’t know who, or why, but someone was playing an extremely elaborate and sick joke on him. Beau smiled, one of the first genuine smiles he’d had that day. With that thought, he glanced at his watch, reading 1:37 AM. He wiped sweat from his brow, fanning his shirt to get a breeze going. Observing the parking lot, he still didn’t see any onlookers. With all the racket he’d kicked up in the last couple hours, someone should have investigated, or at least called in a noise complaint.

Beau tossed the plastic trim back inside the car and shut the door, not bothering to lock it. He spent a moment to relax, closing his eyes and breathing the night air in deep. The weight of his situation seemed to lessen now that he knew his suspicions were not unfounded. He wasn’t going insane. That alone was enough to bring him a measure of peace. Energy was coursing through him, adrenaline amping him up.

He was gazing up at the stars in the clear night sky when he realized something was off. While not an avid astronomer, he’d often found comfort with the stars late at night when sleep escaped him. The sky above him now didn’t look quite as he remembered. It was difficult to find constellations he could recognize. He was debating if the brightest star he could currently see was Polaris or Jupiter when a voice shattered the stillness of the night. Beau started, not only because he hadn’t realized he wasn’t alone, but because he thought he recognized the voice. The tone, the timbre… surely he just imagined…?

He spun on his heel, facing the apartment. Bathed in the warm halogen light of the building’s flood lamp stood a small figure. He squinted, not able to make out features as the figure was backlit by the light. Goosebumps traveled down his arms as he leaned forward, trying to get a better look at the figure. Beau took a few steps forward, a chill running down his spine. The person shifted, casting light across their face. An involuntary gasp escaped his lips; he did know this person.

“Beau, is that you?” the voice repeated.

It belonged to an ancient looking woman, hunched with age with a curly white hair and bifocals as thick as Zippo lighters. She was wearing a a fluffy robe over a flowery nightgown, and she was shuffling towards Beau. The woman utilized a cane with four feet, each with a tennis ball attached to aid stability.

Beau stuttered, struck by the sight. “R-R-Ruby? Miss Ruby?” He felt his eyes bugging out of his head.

The woman chuckled. “Young man, I’m the one who’s supposed to have bad eyesight. Of course it’s me!” she said, not unkindly.

Beau’s mind was exploding. This was impossible in every sense of the word. Ruby, his neighbor across the hall when he’d lived in this complex, had died almost ten years ago. At that time, the lease on his apartment was almost up, and he’d been hauling boxes out to a moving truck when the ambulance arrived. He’d attended the funeral, even said some words. She had always been sweet to Beau, offering to bake him goodies when he couldn’t afford much to eat. Beau always remembered her fondly — she reminded him of his grandmother.

The scrape of tennis ball felt against concrete brought Beau back to the present. The elation he’d felt with the discovery of the cameras dissipated in the face of a ghost. Beau forced himself to breathe smoothly. In the back of his mind, an anger sparked.

“Miss Ruby, how can this be…? You died, I went to the funeral!” Beau said, struggling to keep his voice level.

With this, Ruby laughed.

“Dear boy, what are you talking about? I think I’d know if I had died,” she said, chuckling. She wore a slightly confused expression, and seemed to be waiting for him to respond.

Beau squinted. The figure certainly looked like Ruby, even sounded like her. He took a few more steps forward, stopping before the sidewalk curb. He could see the wrinkles lining her face, and this close he could smell her perfume. It was exactly as he remembered— floral and stuffy, in a way that would give you a headache after prolonged exposure.

Beau chewed on his lower lip as he pondered the image before him.

“What are you doing out so late at night, Miss Ruby?” he asked, trying to stall while he figured out what was going on.

Ruby was using her finger to rub at the corner of her mouth, shifting her weight from leg to leg as if it hurt to stand still for so long.

“Well I heard all sorts of raucous banging down here, and I thought it might be those dadgum teenagers from Building 30 again,” Ruby said, as though over a morning cup of tea instead of just past midnight. She let her non-cane hand slap her hip dramatically.

“I just came down because I couldn’t sleep and nobody is at the office this late. Thought if I spooked them, they’d run back home. But it’s just you down here.” She narrowed her eyes, pointing a bony finger at Beau. “Surely it’s not you making a racket down here, Beau?” she asked, an accusatory tone entering her voice.

Beau frowned, the Ruby he knew was non-confrontational, especially with the rowdy teens in the complex. They had been known for causing havoc around the apartments almost the whole time Beau lived there. The culmination of their antics came when the oldest of the group had tried to break into Beau’s car to steal his sound system. Beau had been up late, sitting on the stairs outside of his apartment, when the boy went to work on the tailgate. The cops showed up in time to nab him in the act, and Beau lost tabs on them after that.

He was sure this was another trick, but to what end? Beau decided to continue the conversation in an attempt to trick this fake Miss Ruby into slipping up. Whoever was orchestrating this cruel experiment clearly knew an extraordinary amount about this period in his life, down to things even he’d forgotten. The delinquents in his complex were a detail anyone who was around would remember if asked, and there would also be a public police report. That said, he’d already caught mistakes in whatever this was, and there was the surveillance equipment. At the very least he’d could go back upstairs and call the cops, surely they’d have to do something when presented with the cameras.

“Ruby, you know I wouldn’t do that,” Beau said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I heard the noise too, so I came down to check my car. Whoever it was isn’t here anymore, though.”

Ruby studied him through the thick bifocals that made her eyes like huge. Beau looked right back, waiting for a response.

“Well alright, Beau, I just don’t want you to get into trouble,” she said, face breaking out into a matronly smile. “Will you be a dear and help an old woman up the stairs? I really need to ask them for a ground-floor apartment…” her voice trailed off, a hint of sadness coloring her words.

For all the bubbling anger Beau felt at being put in this insane situation, he softened a bit at her words. Seeing the frail old woman seem so vulnerable tugged at his heartstrings. He cautiously approached her, then held out his arm. Ruby took it, looking up at him with a small smile and tear-rimmed eyes.

“Thank you, Beau. You really are a sweet man,” she said, patting his arm.

They shuffled toward the staircase, one frail hand on Beau’s arm, the other on the cane. They walked in silence, focused on the task at hand. Beau’s mind once again raced. Being this close to her, he was certain she was the same woman he knew a decade ago. She looked exactly the same, sounded exactly the same, even the perfume was the same. None of that changed the fact the Beau had been there when she’d been buried. This ploy from his tormentors, whoever they were, might have worked hours ago, before the cameras, but he wasn’t sold. He just couldn’t figure out how she was here now.

Wracking his brain for ideas, Beau helped the woman masquerading as Ruby up the stairs. He had to give it to her, it was convincing. So much so that anyone else would be fooled, he was sure. They had to take it one step at a time, given her stiff joints. Beau carried the cane as Ruby used his arm and the handrail to pull herself up. This gave Beau more time to think. Suddenly, an idea charged to the front of his mind. He contemplated — it had to seem organic.

“Miss Ruby,” he began, tentatively, “I’m not sure if I want to keep trying to write books. What do you think?”

Ruby paused, they were nearly halfway up the staircase. Beau had to give her credit, it did look like sweat was beginning to glisten on her forehead.

“Now Beau, what would make you think a thing like that?” she asked, in the manner that a grandmother might when disappointed.

Beau shrugged. “I’m not really making money on it, and it just seems like it isn’t going anywhere.” He didn’t have to act here, he merely recalled what he’d felt at the time.

Ruby stared at him with a look that said I can’t believe you just said that.

“Beau, have you lost your mind? We’ve talked so much about you becoming a successful writer, and you’ve worked awful hard.” She put a reassuring hand on his arm. “You just told me last week that your agent sent West, Beyond Death to the publisher, I-I’m just sure they’ll want to print it. You really are talented, you know,” she finished with a smile.

Tears began welling in Beau’s eyes. He rubbed them with the back of his hand, turning away from Ruby. She patted him on the back, but said no more. Likely she thought her words had moved him, and in a way they had. His rage was back, and barely contained. West, Beyond Death, his first successful novel, hadn’t been completed until after Ruby had passed and Beau had left the the apartment to crash on a friend’s couch. Beau hadn’t even found an agent who would bother reading his book when Ruby was still alive.

Ruby was included in the dedication at the beginning of the book for the impact she had on him while he lived in that apartment. Now someone, who did all this work to convince him the last decade hadn’t happened, was spitting on this woman’s memory. Beau forced down his anger with an effort, before turning back to the old woman. He hoped his face looked sufficiently emotional in response to the fake-Ruby’s words, but found he almost wanted her to know he was aware of the farce.

“Thank you for the kind words, Ruby,” Beau forced through gritted teeth, as they resumed their climb.

As they alighted the landing, Ruby paused to catch her breath. Beau pretended to glance around nonchalantly, but studied her out of the corner of his eye. He had to give it to her, whoever this woman was, she was committed to the bit. She fanned her face with a hand as she leaned heavily on the railing. After a moment, Ruby stood and faced Beau. She opened her arms, offering an embrace as a matronly woman would might. Beau tried to hide his grimace as he leaned in, lightly patting her back before pulling away from her frail arms.

“You’ll be alright, sweetie,” Ruby said, that same grandmotherly smile on her face. “And I hope I already thanked you for being kind enough to mention me in the beginning of your book.” With this, she turned to unlock her apartment.

Beau stood, fists clenched, jaw working as his fury threatened to explode. He wanted her to open the door so he could see what the apartment looked like inside. He’d been in many times to help her with menial tasks, he was sure he could tell if it was faked. To his mounting frustration, Ruby just stood at the door. She spent longer than necessary getting her keys out, finding the right one, inspecting it for good measure…

“Do you need me to open that for you, Miss Ruby?” Beau offered, jaw clenched.

“Oh no, I’m still quite capable, thank you,” came the reply. The small woman remained in front of the door, still not moving to open it.

Ruby turned, looking over her shoulder at Beau. “Really, it’s alright Beau. You can go inside now,” she said, tone picking up a slight chill.

Not yet willing to openly confront the fake Miss Ruby, or whoever was behind all this for that matter, Beau turned instead and made his way back down the stairs. He heard Ruby call his name again from the landing upstairs, before he hopped in his car and the engine roared to life. He looked up at the second floor, Ruby was leaning on the railing and watching him.

“Yeah right,” he said to himself with a scoff.

That old woman could never see all the way down to where he was, not with her prescription, and certainly not in the dark. He backed out of his spot, not waiting for the transmission to settle before throwing the shifter into drive and gunning it. He tore across the parking lot, apartment buildings racing by, before skidding around the corner toward the front of the complex. He glanced in his rear-view mirror right before he hit the corner, and was rewarded. Standing at the bottom of the staircase, bathed in the flood lamp on the building, and having forgotten her cane, was Ruby. She was holding a hand to her ear, whether for a phone or earpiece Beau did not know. Truthfully it didn’t matter what it was — he was correct once more. That woman had long since lost the ability to race down a flight of stairs, hell, the trip upstairs had taken nearly fifteen minutes.

Whoever was running the show here clearly wasn’t all-knowing or all-powerful. Beau pondered this as he raced down the empty streets of the town he had once lived in. He was sure at this point that he wouldn’t get pulled over, if there even were actual cops here. As he thought more about the events of the last day and change, he wondered at the sudden appearance of such an important figure from his past. Even though the woman was a carbon copy, it wasn’t her. It dawned on Beau that she might have been sent in as a reinforcing mechanism after he’d found the surveillance equipment. He chewed that thought for a minute before making a decision.

The gas tank on the vehicle read full, and it was running well. Beau beelined directly for the interstate that lead to the state line, which was only an hour away.

“Not even an hour at this rate,” Beau thought.

He was hovering around 80 MPH, any faster and the old gal started to shake. The copy vehicle might run better than his ever did, but it was still decades old at this point.

Not stopping for red lights, he made it to the on-ramp in record time. Slowing just enough to keep it between the lines, he sped up the ramp, catching small air at the top. The vehicle came down smoothly on its suspension, another feat that would have destroyed the real car. Beau rolled the windows down, feeling the breeze and a sense of freedom. Whatever was happening here couldn’t extend the next state over, and if it did, he would drive until he got back to reality.

Thirty minutes from the city, and thirty minutes from the state line, the car started to remind him of the real version. He tried to roll the windows back up, but no amount of pulling up on the controls would do it. He had a sneaking suspicion a fuse had popped out, but the access panel was currently covered by the driver door. Not wanting to stop now, he chalked it up to the copy vehicle also being as old as the original. At least, until the engine temperature needle on the dash started creeping into the red, then past. Beau let off the gas, hoping it was somehow a byproduct of his speed. A loud whine emitted from the front of the vehicle, followed shortly by a loud POP-THUNK noise.

The car still seemed to be driving fine, that is until a billowing cloud of white smoke erupted from the hood. Beau let off the gas and tried to steer the vehicle to the shoulder, but was shocked when the wheel wouldn’t budge. He braked hard, slowing to a crawl before yanking the wheel to the right. With an effort, the wheel rotated, and the car rolled to a stop at an angle on the shoulder.

Beau sat, stunned. He opened the door and stepped out, cool night air suddenly chilling him. The hood was still smoking and the entire front of the car was wet. He knew by looking that the radiator had just erupted. The serpentine belt must have blown as well, given the sudden lack of power steering. He looked at the hood for a moment, then shook his head. He’d have to wait to open it at those temps, so there was really no point. The headlights were still on, and pointed into a thicket of trees beyond the highway. There were no lights this far outside the city, and coming as no surprise to him, he was the only one on the road.

The highway was two-sided, with opposing lanes of travel separated by a grass median containing a high-tension wire barrier to prevent crossover accidents. With nobody on the road, Beau aimlessly walked into the middle of the highway. If he shut out the sound of his car’s radiator steaming, it was very peaceful. He observed his vehicle with a detached interest. To go from running perfectly to basically blowing up all at once… he was sure it was possible, but given the surrounding circumstances, it was fishy.

Mind made up, he started walking down the middle of the highway in the direction of the state line.

“If I’m gonna have to walk at least thirty miles, I guess starting before the sun is up is the way to go,” Beau thought, grimly.

He hadn’t thought to grab any water before heading out, although it wasn’t exactly a planned trip. He was meandering down the road, staring at the stars, when he noticed something in his vision change. He looked around, not immediately understanding what his eyes had already noticed. Looking at the ground, he realized that while the road in front of him was dark, the road behind him was growing brighter and brighter. He spun around, shielding his eyes from the glare of two brilliant orbs of light that were racing toward him. He rushed to the shoulder, glancing back at the lights.

As they got closer, he realized stupidly that they were vehicle headlights. He lightly slapped his cheeks, trying to coax his brain to stay in the game. The large, black SUV the lights belonged to pulled up alongside Beau, slowing to a stop. He stood there, unsure if this was danger or rescue. The vehicle’s passenger window rolled down, and sitting inside was a bald man with a thick neck and friendly smile. The man propped a muscular arm on the door, leaning his head out.

“Heya amigo! Is that your car on the shoulder back there?” the man asked. His demeanor seemed friendly, but Beau was on edge.

“And if it is, friend?” Beau returned, hoping he sounded more threatening than he probably looked.

The man’s smile faltered for a split-second, then returned.

“Well, it don’t matter to us neither way, but if it is we can get you sorted out,” said the bald man. “Name’s Patrick, everyone calls me Pat. Listen, I’ll be straight with you. We thought the ride was abandoned, so we already called in a wrecker. Had a busted radiator and the serpentine belt was scattered across the road. Well, technically it was abandoned, but since we found you, we can just have it sent to your place!”

Beau frowned. “Maybe I’m just out for a night time stroll, it’s a free country, isn’t it?”

The man, Pat, nodded sagely at this.

“True, true, so it is,” Pat said. “Just seems to me it can be dangerous walking down a highway in the middle of the night, by yourself, no flashlight…” Pat eyed him over, “…no supplies, not even something to defend yourself with. Could be dangerous is all I’m sayin’.”

Beau searched his mind frantically for a way out of this, but came up flat.

“Alright, well I appreciate the concern,” Beau said. “Can you just call me a cab and I’ll head back into town with them?” He tried to sound nonchalant but couldn’t help but notice the desperation that leaked into his voice.

Pat seemed to notice it too. His smile changed from friendly to smug.

“Can’t, sorry. Cab service doesn’t run out here. Why don’t you just hop in the back here and we’ll run you back into town?” the bald man said.

With this, both passenger-side doors opened. Pat stepped out, even larger and more imposing than the snapshot in the open window suggested. Next to him, emerging from the back seat, was a heavily tattooed man with scars crisscrossing his arms and face. Clearly there was no more debate to be had. With a resigned sigh, Beau stepped up to the vehicle. Both men were at least a foot taller than Beau, who chuckled humorlessly. The tattooed man, whom Beau decided to name Tatts, ushered him into the back seat. He found himself sitting in the middle, sandwiched between Tatts and another mountain of a man. Beau dubbed this one Tiny, on account of his pebble-sized head.

The driver swung the car around as soon as the doors shut. They were driving down the wrong side of the highway, but nobody seemed to care. In fact, the men escorting him seemed to be bored. On the verge of a nervous breakdown at having his escape attempt foiled, Beau decided to lighten the mood.

“So, uh, guess we’re not really concerned about being pulled ever, huh?” he interjected into the silence. There was no response from the men, although the driver did cross over to the correct side at the next turn-about.

Beau attempted several more conversation starters, ranging from comments of the weather to asking about everyones’ diet and workout routines. The only person to respond was Pat, who occasionally grunted. Eventually Beau gave up, sliding down in his seat. Before he knew it they were pulling back into his apartment complex.

“Uh, guys? I didn’t even give you my address.” Beau said, in mock confusion.

Pat looked at him through the rear-view mirror. “Nah, you definitely did. You probably just don’t remember. It’s late, after all,” the big man said, tone broking no argument.

They parked in front of his building, Tatts practically hauling him out of the vehicle. Pat rolled down the window as the big man got back in the back seat.

“Now don’t be doing anything silly like that again, you could get hurt,” Pat said, smile gone now.

Beau chewed the inside of his cheek as he returned the man’s stare. He’d decided on this during the ride, he just had to work up the guts.

Clearing his throat, he said “I know this is all fake. The whole thing, it’s a setup. I found the cameras. The woman pretending to be Ruby is really good, by the way. How did you guys make the car break down?”

Pat eyed him for a heartbeat, then motioned to the driver. As the vehicle backed out of the space, Pat said, “You’re tired, get some sleep. I think when you wake up you’ll laugh at how wild you sound right now.”

Beau watched the SUV race out of the complex before heading up the stairs to his apartment. He glanced at the sky, the amber light indicating the coming day had yet to intrude upon the darkness. He reached for the knob, pausing as he realized he didn’t have his keys, before remembering he hadn’t locked the door anyway. He twisted the knob, stepped through, closing the door behind him. He frowned, the place was dark. The lights were on when he had left…

He flicked the switch on, involuntarily releasing a brutal scream from the depths of his being at the sight before him. The apartment was spotless. There was no evidence of his handiwork, and worst of all, no surveillance equipment. He tore through the apartment, opening every cabinet and drawer, even flipping the furniture. It looked exactly as it had when he’d woken the day before. Taking the fireplace poker, he attempted to open the recess hiding the first camera he’d found. The only thing there now was a drywall ceiling and fiberglass insulation. There was no sign of the weird plastic panels.

An hour later, ceiling full of holes with no cameras to show for it, Beau sat on his couch. His mind was frayed — he felt as though he was becoming untethered from reality. What was real, what was past, and what was made up all blended together. He started to go over options in his head again, then stood up. There were only so many choices left, and time was wasting. He wasn’t a violent man, and he didn’t want to resort to that to get answers, but his fuse was running out. He decided to try one last idea before pulling out all the stops.

Beau ran down the stairs for what felt like the hundredth time in the span of a day, stopping halfway down. Parked in front of the building was the pristine replica of his old vehicle.

“Thanks, guys. You did me a favor,” Beau said, looking up around him at places he assumed cameras would be hidden.

There was a note tucked under the windshield wiper, he glanced at it before tossing it to the ground.

Be safe!

Ⅲ

Beau drove through town, eyes peeled for any sign of people. This whole time, the town had seemed deserted, but the few people that he’d encountered had to be around somewhere. He was also still puzzled by the cars that disappeared when he tried to follow them. Surely these people, and by extension those behind the cameras, would have to be reasonably close by. He drove through town, scanning for buildings that looked like they were actually in use.

The sun threatened to peak over the horizon, rays of golden light striking the few blue-purple hued clouds in the sky. Beau raced through the empty streets, unburdened by pesky obstacles like traffic laws or other vehicles. He was starting to think he would strike out, and pulled to a stop in the middle of the street. He lightly hit the steering wheel with his forehead, hoping to jog a thought.

“What kind of place could people come and go from at all hours without seeming suspicious?” he asked out loud.

He’d already been by the local hospital, the doors were locked. Like a flash, an idea materialized.

Beau resumed his mad dash across town, this time with a specific location in mind. He slowed only to cross a treacherous set of train tracks, then maintained a metered creep down the street. The area he was in now was mostly industrial. He’d never had a reason to come this way when he lived here, but he imagined a manufacturing plant would be a good cover. After driving by rows of seemingly abandoned buildings, he hit the jackpot. Up ahead to his left he could see a large warehouse with a packed parking lot and all its lights on. He contemplated his move, glancing around to see if someone was watching. He couldn’t see anyone, but figured his tormentors were at least tracking him somehow, if not actively watching.

Steeling himself with a breath, he pressed the gas. As he approached the warehouse, he could see a chain link fence with barbed wire atop it lining the parking lot. A rolling gate with a small guard shack marked the only point of entry he could see. The fence was lined with overgrown shrubs, which Beau hoped would aid this maneuver. He quickly punched out the dome lights in the cab, then opened the driver door. He slowed the car to an easy crawl, then wedged the heavy duty weather floor mat against the gas pedal. Satisfied it was depressed, he leapt out and stole across the road to the fence, hoping he was only being tracked and not physically watched.

He watched as the small SUV rolled down the road, then veered to the right as the wheel alignment betrayed the plan, bumping into the curb and rubbing noisily. Beau cringed at the noise, then held his breath as figures started to emerge from the buildings in front of the car. Four figures, plus one from the guard shack, made their way to the car, at least one talking into a radio. They stood around the car, then started looking around the area, ostensibly for Beau.

He took this as a sign to move it, and picked his way along the fence away from the street. He felt like his luck was up, and as he tried to creep as quietly as possible, he was rewarded. The backside of the fence was less cared for than the street side, and a gap a few feet tall was torn in the chain link. Beau went down on his side, pulling back one side of the fence and sliding through. He got up behind a parked car, peeking around to make sure he wasn’t notice. Satisfied he was unseen, he crept through the lot toward the building using the vehicles as cover.

After a tense moment when a car alarm across from him tripped before being turned off remotely, Beau found himself on the side of the warehouse in front of a steel door with no window. Deciding the only way was forward, he gripped the metal handle, then yanked the door open. Silently thanking whatever divine power seemed to be watching over him in this moment, he quickly stepped inside before the open door could draw attention.

Beau found himself inside a hallway, with doors on either side and the way forward leading into the open warehouse. Not being immediately noticed, he sidled up to the wall on his left and peered around the corner into the warehouse. His rage threatened to surface once more.

The open floor was filled with people and pallets holding various items he recognized. There were pallets with boxes labeled with the names of fast food places in town, some labeled as specific food items he would have bought when he lived here, and more. Stacks of furniture, appliances, clothing… all of it copies of his own. He looked further down the line and saw a row of pristine SUVs identical to his own, exact replicas.

He barely had time to process this when he noticed a pair of workers heading his way. They were wearing blue coveralls and yellow hard hats, chatting amicably. The pair hadn’t noticed him yet, so he crept back and made a decision. Opening the door to his left as quietly as he could, he made sure the room was empty before sneaking in and closing the door softly behind him.

Beau looked around, he seemed to be in a locker room of sorts. There were uniforms of all sizes just like the ones the workers were wearing hanging on racks around the room. The voices of the pair outside sounded like they were getting louder. Thinking quick, he found a uniform in his size and ran into a curtained alcove to change. The door to the room opened, the two workers evidently making their way in. Beau changed as silently as possible, before realizing he didn’t have a hard hat. He stopped to listen to what the two were talking about.

“…I’m just saying, I don’t want to be available when they get here. I didn’t come all the way here to be reduced to a coffee-boy,” a deep voice said.

The other one laughed, higher pitched. “Well they’re gonna be here at 0700, so find something to do in the next ten minutes or good luck being production’s errand boy!”

He stood inside the alcove, not moving, until the voices moved back outside the room and he heard the door shut. What the hell was that about, “production?” What was this place?

Beau stepped out from the alcove, grabbing a hard hat and slamming it on his head as low as it would go. He returned to the hallway, taking a deep breath before walking out onto the warehouse floor.

“Act like you belong. Act like you belong,” he muttered this mantra as he strode through the work area, hoping to manifest confidence he didn’t feel.

He walked by a cluster of serious looking people in white hard hats, overhearing snippets of their conversation but not daring to pause and listen more.

“I told you we needed a tail, this never would have happened…”

“Get bent, Doug. There already weren’t enough cameras set up…”

“You two realize when production gets here, they’re coming for you…”

Beau was out of earshot after that. There was that term again, “production.” It almost sounded like a movie, or at least a show. He focused on his surroundings, searching for some obvious work so he could blend in. Coming up blank, he paused by a door at the end of the warehouse. Glancing around and trying not to look brand new, he noticed someone staring at him. A worker twenty feet away was pulling a pallet on a hand truck loaded with buckets of drywall mud and looking directly at him. Beau quickly turned away, realizing it as a mistake as soon as he did it.

“Hey, you new?” the voice he knew to be the worker called out.

Beau knew in his heart it would not be good if he were caught. Deciding on action over thought, he went through the door in front of him and slammed it closed. He quickly took in his surroundings — he was at one end of a hallway that seemed to only lead to a door at the other end. His eye went to a rolling cart stacked with steel chairs collecting dust only a quick step away from him. He rolled the cart in front of the door he’d just come through, grunting with effort. Not stopping to admire his work, he took off toward the other door at a dead sprint. Barely audible over the sound of his running shoes slapping against tile, he could hear shouting at the blocked door. Without looking back, he reached the next door and went through.

This time he was forced to stop. In front of him was a long metal staircase leading down a tunnel not unlike what he imagined the entrance to a nuclear missile silo might look like. The stairs descending at an acute angle, the bottom only just visible in the distance. With no choice but forward, Beau began his descent.

The stairs proved challenging to take quickly, but he made it to the bottom just as he heard the door above crash open. Not bothering to pause at the landing, he took off running. Observing his surroundings as he ran, he scanned the area for workers but saw none. He was in what looked like an underground tunnel, not unlike a highway through a mountain or under the ocean. This tunnel would was wide, and completely straight. Stacks of crates lined the walls, waiting to be brought to unknown destinations. Painted lines covered the concrete floor, which split off and went down smaller tunnels on either side. Figuring the big tunnel was the most important, therefore the most likely exit, Beau forged on.

He slowed to a brisk jog next to one of the tunnel walls, choosing to conserve energy in case a sprint was called for. Periodically casting a glance behind him, he was confident his pursuers were fairly far back. The gloom of the tunnel, which was lit only by dim overhead lights, was suddenly split by headlight beams, accompanied by a throaty diesel whine. Beau ducked behind a stack of crates as the vehicle zoomed past.

It looked like an airplane tug, with a squat cab and flat bed, but sitting on the bad were several large men in dark outfits. Among them, Beau could pick out Pat, Tatts, and Tiny.

He waited until the vehicle traveled a decent distance down the tunnel, then resumed his run. He made it another couple minutes before a noise blasting from his back pocket almost caused his heart to rocket out of his chest. His phone was ringing. Pulling it out quickly and hitting the side button to silence the call, he checked the screen. He stared at it, almost impressed by the gall. In giant letters underneath the “incoming call” text, was a single word.

MOM

Beau dashed the phone against the concrete floor, then kicked it into high gear. Whoever these people were, they were desperate now. Sprinting flat out now, fueled by pure rage and adrenaline, he pulled up short just before he ran smack into a wall. Looking closer, he realized what he thought was a wall blocking the entire tunnel was a huge metal door. It was angled away from him from the roof down, and didn’t have a pedestrian door. Beau looked around, looking for a manual switch. Just then a commotion from behind him drew his attention.

The vehicle was speeding down the tunnel toward him, this time accompanied by several others. Starting to panic, Beau looked around frantically for an escape. He finally noticed a small door in the wall to his left, directly perpendicular to the giant metal door. He raced over to it, throwing it open and almost wrecking his shin on the metal staircase that began right inside of it. He looked up — it was another long climb. He glanced back in the tunnel; he guessed he had about ten seconds before the vehicles got to him. With no choice, he started climbing.

Beau was only a quarter of the way up when the door below him clanged open. Multiple voices shouted up at him, yelling at him to stop and come back down. Not bothering to look back, he was halfway up when he heard footsteps on the stairs behind him. By the three-quarter mark, he couldn’t help himself. He looked over his shoulder, immediately wishing he hadn’t. Pat, the bald enforcer, was gaining on him, taking the steps two at a time.

“BEAU, STOP RIGHT THERE!” Pat screamed, face red and temple veins bulging.

Beau pushed himself even harder, pounding up the steps to the door above him. He reached the door, grabbing the knob and pushing his shoulder into it in the same motion. The door gave way, and Beau fell the the ground, sunlight blinding him.

At first he thought he’d died. Not only could he not see, he also couldn’t hear. Then he realized he could hear, only an extremely loud noise was drowning everything out. He blinked tears away, shielding his face from the sun. The sight before him was more confusing than anything thus far.

He was kneeling in sandy dirt, in a clearing surrounded by tropical trees and plants. Surrounding him in the clearing was a massive gaggle of people, and they were all screaming. No, not screaming, he realized, but cheering. There were bleachers set up around the clearing, with awnings for shade and vendors selling food set up nearby. In front of the bleachers were various people holding large TV cameras, boom mics, and digital cameras with macro lenses. With a start, he also realized someone was standing directly next to his right.

Beau thought the man was young, but at second glance recognized the tell-tale signs of heavy plastic surgery. He was wearing a white linen outfit, and holding a wireless mic and a stack of cue cards. His hair was immaculately styled, and Beau thought his sunglasses probably cost more than he made from his last book.

The man motioned for the crowd to settle down, and those in the bleachers took their seat. Beau was startled by the door behind him shutting, and spun around, fists up. Pat was standing there, a dark look on his face.

The man with the mic clapped Beau on the shoulder and gave him a conspiratorial wink over his shades.

He leaned in and said, “He lost a lot of money because you got out so quick,” with a nod over to Pat.

The man with the mic turned to the assembled cameramen and motioned them closer. Taking a visible breath, the man launched into what was clearly a practiced spiel.

“Aaaaaalrighty folks, so glad you could join us on this wonderful summer day! I’m your host, Jasper Donovan, and this…” he paused for dramatic effect, “is The Donovan Experience.”

At this the crowd erupted in cheers again. Jasper motioned for quiet again before turning to Beau.

“I’m here with Beau Deacon, best-selling author,” the presenter said. “Beau, you have just recorded the fastest escape time in Donovan Experience history! How do you feel?” Jasper shoved the mic in Beau’s face.

Beau stood stock still, staring at the slimy man. What was going on?

“Wha… what are you talking about?” Beau asked Jasper, not fulling grasping the situation.

Jasper gave a small chuckle and a nod to the audience before turning back to Beau.

“Well, obviously you’re the latest contestant on The Donovan Experience! Surely you’ve watched the program before?” Jasper said, seemingly confused at having to explain the basic premise.

Beau started shaking his had, unable to form words.

Jasper pursed his lips for half a second before nodding in acceptance.

“Well! For those uninitiated viewers, The Donovan Experience is the premier program in reality TV! Who needs manufactured relationship drama when you can have a one-person drama fest!” Jasper finished his pitch to clapping from the audience.

Beau continued shaking his head, eyes blank.

Jasper huffed, clearly ready to move on.

“Okay, here’s the deal. We pick out a contestant. We, eh, well ‘kidnap’ is the wrong word… oh, we acquire the talent, then prep them for the show and drop them in! Their every waking moment is streamed live on our premium channel for the viewer’s pleasure.” Jasper waggled his eyebrows at this, nodding like it was a normal thing to say — much less do.

Beau’s mouth hung open in shock. He couldn’t physically respond to the information because his brain was still processing.

Jasper dropped his hands to his sides, visibly annoyed. He pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation.

“Look, Beau. We take you, put you in a medically induced coma, fly you to this private island, give you all sorts of botox and experimentally performance enhancing drugs, and hook you up to a machine that exercises your muscles for you while you sleep. All the while we prep the experiment. In your case, we wanted to see how long we could convince you that a small portion of your life had been a dream. To be fair, we almost succeeded, I think.” Jasper was ranting now, presentation forgotten.

He continued, “All in all it was a great season. Ratings through the roof. I was pissed you figured it out so quickly until I realized people were hooked! This’ll really stick it to the people who say we’re just a Truman Show rip-off. I mean, there’s nothing new in Hollywood anyway, what do they care. We’re making money.”

Beau finally managed to find his voice. “Are… you’re saying this was all for a TV show…?”

Jasper nodded impatiently, like he was talking to a toddler.

“What, uh.. What about my dog? Where is Maggie? And Stacey, does Stacey know about all this?” Beau said, feeling like his throat was constricting.

Jasper scratched his chin absently. “Oh, them. Well we have a policy not to tell anyone related to the contestant. At last check up, it seems like she thinks your dead or something. She took the dog though, so that’s probably fine. If you’re ready, we can start the interv—“

Jasper was interrupted by Beau’s fist crashing against his jaw. The sleazy presenter fell to the ground holding his jaw, looking up at Beau aghast. Jasper gasped in fear, the person he saw before him was not the same one that stumbled out of the tunnel minutes before. Beau’s eyes bulged, neck muscles straining. He was seething with barely contained rage, chest pumping up and down, fists clenched.

Jasper tried to save himself, choking out through a broken jaw, “Wait, y-y-you won a cash prize!”

Unfortunately for Jasper, Beau wasn’t listening. He straddled the TV presenter, raining blow after blow on his head. If Beau had been able to see anything past the red rage clouding his vision, he might’ve been surprised that the crowd was cheering and recording on their phones. Even Pat had a smirk on his face.

The image of Beau, fist cocked back, ready to thud against Jasper’s face, froze on the broadcast. The picture shrunk and moved next to the weeknight news anchor.

“…and with that, another season of The Donovan Experience comes to a close. It’s a shame such a great contestant went off the deep end at the end. He’ll get what’s coming to him though, as soon as the sentencing concludes. Tune in next season as a new host takes the reigns, with fresh new name!”

© 2024 by Elisiah Lake

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The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.