Page 1 of Catching Camila

John

Monday 12:18 a.m.

He woke knowing only pain.

His bones ached like they'd been shattered and glued haphazardly together. His head buzzed like a tuning fork. A bitter taste coated his tongue. He searched for the word and it swam sluggishly up before him. Blood. He tasted blood.

He peeled his eyelids open to a sea of gray. As his eyes focused, he realized he was lying on his back looking up at the night sky. A few thin clouds streaked across a yellow crescent moon. A fringe of leaves and branches stood out black against the sky above. He lifted his head and a stab of pain needled through his skull. He winced, waited and propped himself up on his elbows. He looked down at his naked body and drew in a sharp breath.

Naked. Oh god.

He was lying in a large trough gouged into the earth, a crater from the look of things. The damp, dark soil on either side of him looked freshly uncovered. He reached a trembling hand into the dirt. It crumbled into flecks on his fingers, dark brown and loamy. Frightened, he brushed it away and sat up.

He scanned his body for the source of his pain: broken bones, dislocated joints, flayed skin. But as his eyes traced his limbs, covered in moist earth, he seemed intact.

He pulled himself upright, digging his fingers into a nest of dangling roots. He had to get out of this hole, this…grave. His other senses were awakening now: a gripping hunger, like he'd never eaten a meal in his life, and an overwhelming sense that everything was very wrong. Why couldn't he remember how he'd gotten here? Why couldn't he remember…anything?

The cold, raw panic crept up his limbs as he scrambled out of the crater, sending showers of earth into the hole. He dragged his bare chest over the coarse, dewy lawn. A puff of wind drove goose bumps over his bare damp skin. He pulled himself to his feet.

A park stretched out before him: long sections of grassy plain, cut into squares with chain-link fence. Signs were posted: “Keep Our Park Clean” and “Dogs MUST be kept on a 6-foot leash.” Century-old trees, tall and gnarly, skirted the grassy areas. In the center of the tidy park was a path of destruction cut like a scar across the face of the earth. It was as if something had plummeted from the sky and skidded along the ground, snapping off trees, scorching branches. At the back of the park, the grass still smoldered. Whatever it was had come to rest here. He peered down into the hole again.

How had he ended up here? And where was he?

He stumbled to a picnic table and sat. His head thrummed. His stomach clenched. He’d throw up if he had anything in his belly. He put his head in his dirt-caked hands.

Whowas he?

John.

The name flashed in his head and he grabbed onto it like a life preserver. Was it his name? It could be a brand of soap for all he knew, but he assigned it to himself regardless. A name was one step closer to something. And something was better than nothing. He searched his synapses, but the path fizzled and died like the tail of a rocket. Nothing.

Headlights sliced through the dark as a car pulled up. A door slammed. John’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. A thought blared in his head, the only thing he knew for certain: Trust no one.

He couldn't be seen. He bolted upright, teetered and righted himself with a hand to the tabletop. Then he was off into the trees as fast as his legs would take him.

* * *

Tuesday 9:37 a.m.

John lay stock-stillin the crinkly leaves as the dog waddled his way. A basset hound (if his addled brain served him right) lumbered through the underbrush and blinked at him. The brown and white dog with droopy jowls and long floppy ears licked John’s cheek. It panted into his face, the pink crescents of skin showing underneath its drooping eyelids, then it went back to sniffing the dirt around his thighs.

The dog park had come alive with activity early this morning. Waiting for something to jog his memory, John had hidden in the woods next to the crater. What a long night. His memory hadn’t returned, but people and their four-legged friends had, filling up the grassy areas and woods. John had tried to leave, only to find neat backyards, children playing in little plastic pools or gray-haired ladies weeding their gardens. They probably wouldn’t appreciate him strolling naked past their rhododendrons.

Plus, there was that pesky crater that had everyone buzzing.

Naked, hungry, and alone, he'd decided to wait until dark to leave. Now, with the mosquitoes biting his, er, tender regions, he realized this wasn’t his brightest idea.

The basset hound nosed John’s hand. He ran his fingers through the dog's soft coat as its tail thwacked a steady rhythm.

“Hey there, boy. Whatcha doing, huh?” John scratched under the dog’s chin. John nuzzled his face into the dog’s back and his heartbeat steadied.

A shrill whistle cut through the trees. John tensed. The dog turned.

“Come, Roxy. Come on, girl,” a man's voice called from the path.

She's a girl, John thought, as Roxy pulled away and waddled toward her owner. From his hiding spot, he watched the dog leave, feeling empty.

I should just get up and ask for help,he thought. The police had arrived an hour ago. He could sneak through the brush and get someone’s attention. But an alarm blared inside him every time someone came near.

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