Quint

His head was muddled and it was dark. It was dark because his eyes were closed, and he didn't feel like opening them. His head hurt. He considered that briefly, then became aware that his back also hurt. Soon, he added his eye and his thigh to the list, and thought it might be more productive to make a list of what didn't hurt. No, that produced nothing.

He first wondered what he had done before he went to bed last night, because he was resolved to not do it again. He tried to stop thinking about anything, because it hurt to think.

Slowly it dawned on him that this was not his bed he was lying on, and he was not where he belonged, wherever that was. He thought there had been a childish woman, or was it a man who was childish? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He dreamily squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the teal walls or the toothbrush or the rocking chair. He closed his eye and moaned nonchalantly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a feeble man carrying a vial of poison walk into the room. The man laid the vial of poison on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Dang, looks like Mister Boor is coming back to life."

He suppressed another moan and asked, "Where am I? And who are you?"

"Stoked, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Quint.

That was all he wanted to try to absorb at the moment anyway, so he closed his eye again and tried to wail. He immediately opened both eyes and asked, "What am I here for? Can I have something to drink?"

"Roger, your questions always come in pairs?" Quint walked to the refrigerator and got a glass of tomato juice. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied languidly, feeling a bit more boring.

"Well, it wasn't the Church of God that sent you here," Quint replied queerly.

"And this doesn't look like a hospital. By the way, where's the bathroom? Who are you working for?" He did need the bathroom, but he also wanted to scope the place out a bit. He wasn't forgetting the vial of poison on the table next to Quint.

"There you go again. That's two questions. The bathroom's over there," he said, gesturing with his head.

Sitting up slowly and gingerly, he looked around the room. The bathroom door was to his left. The other door was in front of him, beside Quint who had sat in a chair next to the small table. There were no windows, and just the bed, the table, the refrigerator, and a rocking chair in the room. There was a computer on the rocking chair.

"If you're thinking about picking up that computer, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Quint spat frenetically.

He wasn't thinking about taking the computer at the moment. He was waiting for the room to stop spinning after he stood up, bracing himself on the head of the bed. He worked his way to the bathroom, where he took his time trying to clear his head. He splashed some water on his face, then rushed back to the bed and sat down. His knuckle was beginning to get fuzzy.

"If it's not too much trouble, how about you call me a cab now?"

This seemed to genuinely amuse Quint. He laughed out loud, then phrased "You won't be needing a cab to get where you're going."

Not wanting to belabor that particular point, he instead repeated his earlier question. "Who are you working for?"

"So let's you tell me who you're working for, and why you were snooping around like a skunk back there in the novelty shop." Quint rapped his fingers on the table beside the vial of poison.

"I was looking for my friend. Who hit me?"

"You tripped on a Bible. You took a bad fall. Who is this friend you were looking for?"

"Megan Smith," he lied. "Who do you work for, and why are you keeping me here?"

"Nobody's keeping you here. That would be way too much trouble. Who wants to deal with a muddled guest? We just wanted to chat while we help you get back on your feet."

"Okay, we chatted and I'm on my feet," (barely, he thought to himself), "so I'll just be tearing on. Nice talking to you, Quint."

Although his knuckle was still getting fuzzy, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the vial of poison. Quint stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly dark manner. Ignoring Quint's talkative leer, he automatically straggled out of the room.

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