Again, But Better

2. Somebody Catch My Breath
“Shane? Shane!”
What happened? I pull my eyes open. Pilot’s face floats into focus above me. He’s saying my
name again, anxiety spiking through his voice.
I gasp for oxygen. “Oh my god, I passed out.” I squeeze my eyes shut. Everything comes
slamming back. The elevator. 
London?
“I had this 
Twilight Zone
dream we were back in London, and Atticus and Sahra—”
“Shane,” Pilot cuts me off. I vaguely register that I’m awkwardly lying with my head in his lap,
his arms stretched out under my armpits. He caught me trust-fall style. I stare past him at the white
ceiling in confusion. The elevator was black.
Sahra’s face pops into view.
“Oh my god,” I croak.
“Shane, I got you some water. Don’t worry, Atticus ran to get help,” she says.
“Sahra, Atticus—” My eyes find Pilot’s and he nods.
“Yeah,” he says.
I sit up quickly. Pilot takes back his arms, and I scoot away. “I don’t need help. I’m fine. I just
need some water and some food. I’ll be fine.”
“Take it easy, Shane,” Sahra says. I grab the glass of water from her outstretched hand and
chug it down.
Frantic footsteps fly down the hall, and Atticus comes into view. He speaks through heaving
breaths. “I found. Someone. They’re coming.”
“No, no, tell them not to come, please. I’m fine. I just need to eat some food.”
“Are you sure? You were pale as heck,” Atticus asks, heaving.
“Please, go call them off!”
“Um.” Atticus looks from to me to Pilot. Pilot gives him a nod, and Atticus takes off running
back upstairs.
I look back at Sahra, now leaning against the wall, watching me with a worried expression.
“I’m fine, guys, really.”
“Maybe it’s the jet lag or something?” Sahra reasons. Her eyes catch on something behind me.
“The hell? Why are there knives on the floor?”
I look over at Pilot, who’s now sitting on the ground, staring blankly at the carpet. I turn back
to Sahra.
“I’ll take care of the knives. Can you, um, give us a second?” I ask quietly.
“Okay,” Sahra drawls in a mildly suspicious tone. “Take it slow getting up,” she adds
assertively before heading back into … our room. She leaves the door open.
I turn to Pilot. “Pilot?”
He doesn’t move or respond.

---

“Pies? Pilot!” I reach out and shake his shoulder. He looks up and meets my eyes, but doesn’t
say anything. I exhale in relief before slowly rising from the ground. I need food.
“Let’s go get something to eat.”
Pilot nods and gets up. I start to walk toward the staircase. It’s the same staircase. When we
reach the landing, we come face-to-face with the foyer of the Karlston. I mash my lips together
and plow past the front desk, through the doors. I glance over my shoulder to make sure Pilot is
behind me. He is, looking just as dumbstruck as I feel. We emerge onto the street with all the fancy
white-pillared buildings.
I come to a standstill on the sidewalk, my head frantically swinging from left to right. Pilot
stands next to me in silence. We stay that way for a minute.
Then Pilot puts a hand on my back and steers me to the right. “Food—this way.”
I comply. We head toward Gloucester Road. His arm drops back to his side. We walk like
aliens on a foreign planet: creeping cautiously rather than at a normal human pace, and silently
ogling at our surroundings. London breathes around us. Cars swish by. Children pass on scooters.
Men and women power walk home from work. Red buses race down the street.
At the end of the block we come up on a newspaper machine for the Telegraph. I stop walking
and reach for Pilot’s arm so he stops as well. We share a look before simultaneously stooping
down to inspect the front page behind the glass. It takes me a moment to pinpoint the date. Under