Chapter 2
The streets of New York City project cones of light through my windows, penetrating the darkness of my flat. The objects in my bedroom flicker between my sleep and wake as I lie in bed, eyes closing, opening, closing again, as I slowly lose awareness of my surroundings.
Then, at once, a wave of brightness washes over me and the night dissolves from my grainy vision.
The sky is clear, the sun hot. This is Boulder CO, I think, and I wonder how I got here. The city bears no similarity to its past appearance, and yet I know I am walking in Boulder. Isn’t Boulder close to the Rockies? Of course it is. And yet the path is covered in fine sand, and I am sure the sea isn’t far. The sand grinds between the laces of my sandals and my feet as I make my way through an open market. A myriad of colours blossoms on each stand: there are silken scarfs, earrings, hand-crafted items. I am fascinated.
And yet I decide to leave the market and to follow a new trail which snakes on a green hill, perfectly mowed. Once I get to the other side of the hill a familiar view opens before me and confirms that I am in Boulder, right in the neighbourhood where I used to live as a kid.
Shadow Creek Dr. has not changed. The wooden houses are painted in the same light brown colour, the pool is there, and people are playing in the tennis court. I can smell the pine trees and the asphalt softened by the burning heat of this summer day.
I start to run, a smile printed on my face, and I don’t stop till I reach the house where I used to live: 2932, Shadow Creek Dr. The main entrance of the building is unlocked, and as soon as I step in the smell of carpet and wood wraps around me, the exact same way it did back then.
The wooden door of my old apartment is in front of me, locked.
I stare at it, wondering what’s behind it now. What if someone stepped out? How could I explain my presence here?
I am about to walk away when the door opens. A man stands at the entrance, observing me intensely and yet without expression.
I gasp, unable to articulate an excuse. The man doesn’t seem to need one though.
“Come on in,” he says, “I was expecting you.”