“Everything’s okay, Pellucid,” he says.
I sniff in a breath. “How… how do you know my name?”
He takes another slow but sure step, confidence dripping off him. “I’m not going to hurt you, Pell.”
He seems so real. How can I be hallucinating this?
“How… how do you know where I live?” My pitch rises and my breathing labors.
“You’re okay, Pell.” The tails of his duster kiss his booted feet as he takes yet another step toward me.
Is he fact or fiction? My mind wars with itself.
“That’s right.” His tone turns soothing.
“Are… are you real?”
“As real as you, Pell.” His voice is calm and reassuring, and he takes another labored step.
Stubble still mars his chiseled jaw, and my heart accelerates.
The rings on his fingers click against one another like they did before, as he takes another measured step.
He can’t be real. Real people don’t enter my room any way but the door.
A squeak escapes me as he takes another step, but I remain frozen, unable to move a muscle.
Fight or flight. Fight or flight? What to do?
The door is mere steps away, I can bolt. Yet something… something I’ve never felt before but is as real as the soup soaking my sweats, keeps me firmly planted.
“What’s wrong with me?” I press the heels of my hands to my eyes.
He gives a low, throaty chuckle. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Pell. You’ve just never met someone like me before.”
My limbs turn shaky as I drop my hands, and he closes to within four feet, then stops.
He stopped, he stopped, I tell myself.
I’m about to exhale when he starts sniffing the air, just like I hallucinated down in the stairway.
He’s only my imagination, only my imagination, I try desperately to convince myself.
He closes his eyes and a corner of his mouth rises as if he’s… savoring my smell, like in my hallucination.
I’m crazy, this confirms it. My imagination has created an ultra-weird dude.
But no matter how strange his behavior, I can’t look away as, eyes still shut, he smiles, and my pulse quickens.
Dangerous. Wild. Untamed. The words tangle up in my brain.
He opens his eyes and stretches out a hand, palm up. “Pell, I promise I won’t hurt you.”
I draw in a breath and my feet start fidgeting again.
He holds his outstretched hand steady and takes one more step. “Give me your hand.”
A clean scent, austere, fresh, and cool tickles my nose. It’s light, subtle, and almost citrusy. I sniff—I’m as bad as him. There’s a hint of cloves, too. He smells good and entirely male, and my stomach quivers.
Wait, how am I smelling him? Can I smell the scent of a hallucination?
I look up into his striking eyes that are now… what? Shuttered, inscrutable, mysterious? I can’t tell what he’s feeling or thinking. Mirth is gone, and he hasn’t moved; he’s just holding out his hand.
Crazy Guy is waiting for me. A kaleidoscope of butterflies takes flight in my stomach.
But why? Why does he want me to take his hand? Does he somehow sense my inner turmoil?
Bullies I’ve grown up with stirred frustration and a thirst for justice in me. Irik just plain old ticks me off. I’m neutral with most other people unless they do something incredibly stupid. But Crazy Guy… he elicits excitement, confusion, apprehension, fear, even dread in me.
What is wrong with me?
I rub my arm, knocking rice, chicken, and vegetable shrapnel off the front of me, as I stall.
Come on, Pell, get it together, I pep-talk myself.
I’m a scientist. This is a test. It’s only a test. I love tests. It’ll prove definitively whether I’m hallucinating again… or whether…
I can’t begin to contemplate the ramifications if my imagination isn’t at fault.
I can do this.
My mouth feels dry. Will my hand go right through his like a ghost? I almost hope it does. I’ll be crazy, but my ordered world will remain intact.
I feel like a skittish squirrel as I reach out my hand.
He stands like a statue, his eyes following my every move, as my hand inches closer.
Every muscle in my body twitches as my hand hovers over his palm, yet he doesn’t flinch.
Moment of truth.
I grit my teeth and place my hand in his.
Then gasp.
He’s as solid and real as anyone.
He gives my hand a small squeeze and says, “That wasn’t so bad now was it?”
Not bad? I feel dizzy and my knees grow weak as my ordered world turns upside down. People don’t materialize out of thin air. He’s right, I’ve never met anyone like him.
He guides me to the end of the closer bed, and the box springs squeak as he pulls me down to sitting beside him, still holding my hand. “You look faint.”
I swallow hard staring at our joined hands. “I feel faint.”
“You weren’t hallucinating.”
I can only nod as I pull my hand away. He’s real, and I have to somehow rationalize his smoke and mirrors comings and goings.
I fiddle with a string of my hoodie as realization dawns that if he’s real… all those scrolls are too. My breathing grows labored. I truly found a trove of ancient papyrus manuscripts.
“What’s your sweatshirt say?” he asks, diverting my attention before I hyperventilate.
“What?”
“Your hoodie, what’s it say?”
I pull the bottom of the soiled front away from me then read, “Archeologist - one crackpot digging up another cracked pot.”
He snorts. “Is that right? You consider yourself a crackpot?”
“Archeologists have to be a bit off to ‘dig’ this gig.” I laugh. “So yes, I am a bit of a crackpot.”
Now that he’s gotten
