Chapter 1: Waking

Jacob was floating. It was warm and comfortable, and there was no pain. That there wasn’t any pain was the biggest comfort, and he wrapped himself around that and held onto it tightly.

There was no sensation beyond floating, no pressure, no temperature, no light, no sound — nothing, not even time. It felt good. Above all, there was no pain, and that made it feel wonderful.

He just drifted; basking in the lack of sensation, not caring about anything beyond that singular comfort — and that there was no pain.

At first, it was just a wisp of imagination, a figment, perhaps, of his pale dreams. A voice was whispering in his ear. At first, the words were indistinct, but then, gradually, he could hear them better. “Jacob Primare, please. If you can hear me, make a sign. Please, Jacob, if at all possible, give us a sign you can hear.”

The thought was too long, too complex. He knew the voice was calling his name, but beyond that, he couldn’t focus long enough to make sense of the rest. The words registered in his brain; after a time, he could remember them, but when he would try to parse them, it hurt. He didn’t like pain; he avoided it. In fact, he ran away from it.

For a while, the voice was gone, then another returned. “Jake, this is Tom Ford. Please, Jake, if you can hear me, give a sign.”

He was Jacob Primare, he realized. Tom Ford had been a friend ... that led to memories, and memories led to excruciating pain, and he turned his back once again and fled as best he could.

For the first time, he realized that there was no physical flight, just mental shrinking away. He reached out with his senses — and there was nothing. No sight, no sound, no touch, no smell, no taste. He was floating, and that was all he could sense. Even the floating was more a lack of sensation than its presence.

There was something wrong, but when he tried to think about what it could be, the pain returned, and he shied away, like a child who has learned the danger of a hot stovetop.

Even that thought brought back memories. Laughing faces that twisted in strange, distorted shapes, and then the pain came back. He just couldn’t face it. He felt regret and would have cried, but he couldn’t even work up tears. Once again, he fled.

Another voice whispered to him. “Mr. Primare, I’m Doctor Michael Rattray-Taylor, an MD.” That was all; the voice repeated those words, it seemed, forever.

At least this time, he listened. It was, he understood, a memory that didn’t hurt like the others. His father sat with Jacob at his knee, pontificating as he was fond of doing. “You should always use ‘Mr.’ when talking to someone you don’t know. It’s a sign of respect, Jacob. Yes, there are adults who don’t deserve that respect, but first, you have to be sure that you understand. You can never assume, Jacob. So, be polite. It costs very little and can bring huge benefits. And never assume.”

There was nothing in his recent memories that came close to that sort of complete thought. He was a little amazed. And the memories of his father didn’t hurt!

The fog that he hadn’t been aware of seemed to lift a little. One and one, he told himself. That’s two. Two and two ... that’s four. He patted himself on the back. He could still think!

He had no idea how long the memories he could touch occupied him, but the voice was back. “Mr. Primare, our instruments say that you’re awake and conscious. Please, Mr. Primare, give us a sign. Say ‘Yes, I can hear you.’ Even the word ‘Yes’ would be good.”

Jacob wanted to cry. Answering would wake the memories. He knew in his heart that would happen. He was sorry, he was very, very sorry, but he couldn’t bear it. For a few seconds, he thought to temporize and thought, “Maybe later.”

The voice sounded excited. “Later is fine, Mr. Primare. You’re doing well! Don’t give up!”

Jacob contemplated that. A doctor. “You’re doing well! Don’t give up!” Floating. Pain. He managed to fight back the ocean of pain just outside his circle of thought. He’d been hurt. Inside, he knew it wasn’t the first time — just the worst time.

He couldn’t; he was sorry, he just couldn’t. He concentrated on the floating, on the comfort and above all, the lack of pain and ignored the whispers.

Then he saw it in his mind’s eye. The wing of the airplane dipped down, startling him with its abruptness, so soon after takeoff. He’d looked up and in that instant his laptop had been torn out of his hands and without warning, he was floating in the air. He could remember the sensation for those few seconds — it was a lot like now. No sensation that he could remember, just floating. He could see then, he remembered, unlike now when there were just vague images in his brain.

Then he’d looked into the maw of hell. He’d been in First Class and he’d been thrown clear, up and away. But gravity is never your friend and he’d come back down, just as sure as he’d gone up. He remembered his shock at seeing the aircraft’s wing so close.

Then the maw of flame and horror. He had an instant to see what was in front of him, an instant that was long enough for him to realize what he was seeing in front of him. And in that instant it hit him. He’d been three or four feet from the exhaust of one of the jet engines on that side of the aircraft. He felt the heat searing his face, burning, burning, burning...

He screamed soundlessly, fleeing as far as possible from the memories of that awful pain, as helpless as the first time.

His next conscious thought was shame. I am a man, he told himself. I can face what happened to me and deal with it. I’m still alive, I can still think and function. There is no need for me to carry on like a baby. He resolutely forced his memories back to that day.

He’d been in San Francisco and he had to go to Houston for a conference. Just another trip, like a hundred such trips before.

He remembered the aircraft’s sudden maneuver; he remembered the jarring crash and floating in the air outside the aircraft. How could he have possibly survived? They would have been several hundred feet in the air by then, moving two or three hundred miles an hour. Rationally, he should be dead.

He braced himself and once again saw the exhaust of the jet engine and experienced the pain, feeling the skin of his face burn, burn, burn ... He refused to be dominated this time and kept remembering. He was floating again, after that, but the pain had been ... bad.

Then for an instant the fire of the burns ended as he slammed into the water. He felt the shock of the impact, then the almost immediate shrieks of his further pain. The water had been shallow ... his legs ... As abruptly as the pain had started, it died.

There was nothing then, just a slow floating...

From then and until now, all he’d felt was pain and floating. He was pain-free now, but still floating. Was he still floating in the water? It seemed impossible; the time seemed to have been much longer. Would you feel the regular flow of time when you were sensory-deprived? His brain scanned his memories, blissfully pain-free and found nothing.

The voice was louder and clearer this time. “Mister Primare, this is Doctor Rattray-Taylor again. Are you awake?”

“Don’t want to be,” he said to himself.

“You can hear me?”

“Don’t want to hear you,” he said petulantly, feeling a little ashamed. Doctors were supposed to help you; it wasn’t their fault if you’d rather be dead.

There was something on the other end, like a smothered sound of some sort. “Sorry, Mr. Primare. I’m a doctor. I was about to ask how you feel. Tell me, Mr. Primare, is my voice clear, or is it fuzzy in some way or garbled?”

“Clear as a bell,” he said, sympathizing with the doctor. “Doesn’t mean I want to talk to you, though.”

“I understand, sir. You were in an accident.”

“No shit!” he retorted. Then he remembered the real accident. His mind shrank in horror from that. No! No! No! No!