Cuba, New Mexico

He awoke. “Why is it so bright?” He thought. The next thought was, “Who beat me up?" He felt like shit.

A big rig goes by on the overpass above. Looking down the slope of the grade through crusted eyes he can only see the dry creek bed. “How did I get here?”

“Ahhh!” He rolled over on his left side to searing agony in his ribs. He tried again. He slithered into the shade of mid-morning, no more than 15 feet from where he started. “Where am I?” he thought as he looked out over the desert scrub of the southwest. He resolved to make it to the top of the rise. The crawl to the top was agony on his ribs and he couldn't quite feel his left foot.

There seemed to be some sort of stripmall about a mile up the road. Walking was difficult. He had two shoes on but one was talking to him, the sole was separated. The limp didn’t help either. It felt like his chest, shoulder and abdomen were on fire. He reached a sign on the road, “Cuba, New Mexico, Population 590.”

The first building that he could make out was some type of food establishment. It had some pay phones out front and they each had some writing on the side and some sort of lightning graphic. “Verizon. What the fuck is that?” He thought. Before he could make it that far he had to stop to wretch for several minutes. Nothing recognizable came up.

He finally dialed ‘0’ for operator. “Operator,” She said. Why are they always female? “I need to make a collect call.” “What number please?”, "415-666-0112, ask for Jonathan Moore” “Who may I say is calling?” “Albert Palmer.” “Hold please.”

He noticed a bracelet on his wrist. Peak Psychiatric Hospital. "That can't be good."

Some more coughing. “Jeez..[ccccccchhhhhwwweepp]… “What is that?” He thought as the phlegm-mixed-with-bile hit his big toe through the talking shoe. “I have him for you sir.” “Who is this? I haven’t got time for games.” “Jon it’s me, Albert.” Silence. “It can’t be…,” Said Jon. "I hardly believe it myself. I'm just glad you kept the same mobile phone number."