“You keep asking,” he said, without glancing down.

“Well I keep wondering.”

“Then maybe you should have brought a watch.”

“I don’t wear watches.”

He still hadn’t glanced down. “It’s a quarter past two.” A beat. “In the afternoon.”

“No it’s not,” Rudd said. The sun was setting. “Stop being an asshole.”

“How would you know, Rudd? Do you have a watch you aren’t telling me about?”

“Asshole,” Rudd said.

“Not much longer now,” he said.

“How would you know?” Rudd said.

“Because you wouldn’t be so nervous about the time if there was a lot of it to go.”

Rudd nodded. “So what time is it, then?”

“Half past two.” A beat. “In the afternoon.”

“Asshole,” Rudd said.

As they stood in silence as the sun set over the horizon, in the distance smoke billowed like a signal, a plume that trailed into the twilight like snake skin.

“You know what comes next?” he said.

“Nope,” Rudd said. “I rarely do.”

“Fair enough,” he said.

“Huh?” Rudd said.

“What?” said Rudd’s bud.

“I asked what you said,” she said.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Rudd said to his bud.

“Huh?” she said.

“Wait,” Rudd said.

“Listen to me,” said Rudd’s bud.

“No,” Rudd said. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Fuck off,” she said. “Fuck you.”

“No,” Rudd said. “Hang on.”

“What?” she said.

“You’re in danger,” said Rudd’s bud. “And so is she.”

“What?” Rudd said.

“Huh?” she said.

“Wait,” Rudd said. “Hang on—my fucking bud.”

“Your fucking bud might save your life,” said Rudd’s bud. “If you listen.”

“Fuck you,” Rudd said.

“Alright,” she said. “This is too jerked off. I’m out.”

“No,” Rudd said. “You’re in danger.”

“Huh?” she said.

“Good man,” said Rudd’s bud.

Rudd smacked his temple. “Shut the fuck up,” Rudd said, cupping his ear and turning away from her. “Seriously.”

“Bye,” she said. “You’re seriously messed up, dude.”

“No,” Rudd said. “I’m not—my fucking bud—it got hacked and now some asshole keeps talking to me and won’t shut the fuck up,” he said.

“Fuck you,” she said.

“No,” Rudd said. “Seriously, this is totally fucked and I’m sorry. Just listen.”

“What,” she said.

“You’re in danger,” Rudd said. Then like a confession, “I’m in danger,” he said. “We’re in danger.”

“How so?” she said. “By who?”

“I don’t know,” Rudd said. “But that’s what my bud told me.”

“Alright,” she said. “This is seriously too fucked. I’m out.”

“Not a chance,” Rudd said. “Get out of my head.”

“Not a chance,” the man said. “There’s no other way to do this.”

“Pussy,” Rudd said. “If you were man enough to show your face, I’d punch the shit out of it.”

“Exactly,” the man said. “Which is most of the problem.” He paused a beat. “You have serious trust issues, Rudd. When this is all history, I suggest you look into therapy.”

“Fuck off,” Rudd said.

“Not a chance,” the man said. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to hack one of these things?”

“You said you weren’t a hacker.”

“I’m not,” the man said. “But sometimes duty calls.”

“Who are you,” Rudd said. It wasn’t a question.

“Nobody,” the man said. “Not someone you know, nor someone you’ll ever meet.”

“Awesome,” Rudd said.

“Think of me as Jiminy Cricket or Gollum.” He paused. “Except I don’t give a fuck about your ring.”

Rudd looked down at his right middle finger where his silver band rested. He balled a fist, then stretched his middle finger to the sky.

“You need help, Rudd,” the man said. “Simple as that. And I’m sympathetic to your cause. And I can help.”

“Fuck off,” Rudd said. “That’s how you can help. I don’t need help, especially from some pussy bitch who won’t show his face.”

“Not gonna happen, Rudd,” the man said. “This is way too important.”

Rudd yawned.

“He came to me and he told me about this place, a glowing room underneath the earth that had green glowing crystals that were the keys to heaven’s gate.” The man paused. “I asked mother to find a man like you. I didn’t tell her why, but I need you to go find those crystals for me.” He coughed. “It was a long time ago—I was just a boy, but I’ve held onto the image my whole life.” The man’s eyes cleared and he caught Rudd’s gaze. “Sir,” he said, “I need you to find that room. I need you to bring me a glowing green crystal.”

Rudd shook his head. “That’s probably the dumbest thing anyone’s ever asked me to do,” which was an incredible statement, considering his vocation.

“Dumb or not, they exist,” the man said. “And mother will be paying you handsomely for your time.”

“Goddamn right she will.”

“You think I’m crazy.”

“Of course I do.”

“I’m not crazy.”

“Ok.”

“Find me that crystal and you’ll be rewarded even more handsomely.”

“If you say so.”

“They exist, just like you and I exist, sir,” he said. “Trust me.”

“If you say so.”

“And mother can’t know. It would scare her to think I was giving up.”

His eyes were frenetic, like a trapped hamster or a hummingbird looking for its next drink. His arms went to twitch, but his body restrained—they spasmed like a bubbling wave. He choked a word, and it came out like a cough. He swallowed, choked out another word, and grunted a nod.

Rudd approached, arms softly at his side.

A belch and another grunt, a cough followed by another word that sounded a bit like “Arf.” His face softened, his eyes watered, his brow furrowed.

Rudd shook his head. “Can’t help you there, chief. I have no idea what the fuck you just said.”

“Arf,” the man said, his voice a cacophony of throat and whisper. “Rik-toff-roff-arf-narf?”

“Nope,” Rudd said. “Still nothing.”

The man grunted, coughed, cleared his throat. “Barf,” the man said, clearing his throat again. “I think I need to barf.”

“Shit,” he said. “What time is it?”

“Dunno,” she said. “I don’t wear a watch.”

“Shit,” Rudd said. “I need to know the time.”

“Well,” she said. “Shoulda worn a watch then.”

“I never wear a watch,” Rudd said.

“Well, they’re useful when you need to know the time,” she said.

“I know,” Rudd said. “Shut up.”

“Fuck you,” she said. “Fuck off.”

“I need to know the time,” Rudd said. “I didn’t think it would be an issue.”

“You drive a piece of shit—time’s always an issue,” she said. “We’re in the middle of the goddamn desert. Plenty of sun. You can make a sun dial.”

“Shut it,” Rudd said. “It’s not my car.” He paused and looked back in the direction from which they’d come. “How long have we been walking for?”

“Half-hour maybe,” she said.

“Shit,” Rudd said. “I really need to know the time.”

Yes, there were times when the conditions called for such a happening, as clients were often secretive in their motives, secretive in their assignments, even. Yes there were times when Rudd simply wandered, without motivation, into areas, ostensibly out of curiosity, possibly out of boredom, who knows.

Often, though, Rudd would walk into a room with purpose and posture, for a reason he couldn’t remember. It had been something important, he thought, or maybe not important, but interesting or useful. It had been something he’d wanted to see or try or do or take or have. It had been, he thought, something that must have meant something.

He thought.

But then he’d never remember why he was there, like someone had pulled his chair just as he sat or a popped balloon filled with fog.

It had been important, he thought, but he couldn’t remember why. Or what.

Or who.

****

This time, though, was a bit different.

As Rudd entered the dark, stuffy, damp room, his mind went completely blank. Beyond losing his purpose, he lost his identity, he lost his history and his story. He lost the capacity to narrate his being, to think about his circumstance, to appreciate his surroundings and gauge. It was, quite so, as if someone had taken a rubber eraser to his mind’s eye, vigorously rubbing away any distinction, leaving behind only the faintest trace of what had previously been. He still had awareness, yes, but only of the fact that there was elsewhere, that the dark, stuffy, damp room wasn’t everything and all, that there was more, but in what form, or what form even was, who knows.

And just as he was catching his breath, it all came back, and there was an emaciated little man rocking slowly in his chair, his plastic, worn face, rubber and pebbles, leather and dust.

She leaned back into the couch’s cushion, her head lolled backwards, to the side, and down, and she slumped over, a faint, boyish smile creased across the corners of her lips, and a tiny bead of drool coalesced and slowly dribbled down her chin.

She dreamed of pale clouds flying past azure skies, yellow hummingbirds gathering on the black shingles of red barns with white shutters. The green grass danced in the light breeze, a cool, clear river gurgled a sweet song of lethargy, tranquility.

She swam laps through time, and—before she awoke—she found pure, unadulterated ecstasy waiting by the door, keys in hand, ready to take her for a ride.

And far less mysterious.

She had a book in her hand that should have been The Bible. Instead, it was a worn classic, its bound edges since unglued, pages loose-leafed and brown with age and wear and stain. The Peculiar Writings of Gus the cover proclaimed, an irony since there was notoriously little Peculiar or Written about Gus. But year after year, class after class, people continued to read about Gus, for whatever reason who knows.

Which, I suppose is a bit of an irony, when you consider the implications of the name.

The printing press birthed literacy and communication. Antibiotics birthed health and life expectancy. Cyberspace birthed interconnectivity and assimilation.

Faith birthed peace and effectively ended vice.

At least, that was the case after the Brief Period of Adjustment.