Jake was home. He was waking up on the couch, stretching and thinking about Cocoa Puffs and hot coffee. The clock read 7:45, which was about right. When school was out, he was usually getting up around now. He stretched again. Why was he so tired? What time had he gone to bed the night before? He tried to remember. He tried to remember what he'd had for breakfast. He tried to remember what day of the week it was.
And then everything came back, settling into his head like a dirty fog.
The ring was on his little finger. He smelled like he'd spent days in the sun without a bath. He was starving and sunburned.
He had an hour.
E. E. came in through the front door with a greeting and a "Where the hell have you been?" and a "God, you smell awful." Jake pushed past him, wondering briefly if E. E. had spent the night at Polly's.
Jake stumbled down the four flights of stairs and out onto the street, glancing down as an afterthought to make sure he had clothes on. Tennis outfit, tennis shoes. Once this is over, he promised himself, he'd be a jeans and t-shirt and flip-flop man until he died.
He went down the street at a full run, unsure of what he was looking for. Someone. Someone who deserved to be tortured in the desert.
Of course, all the nuns and small children were on the street today.
But something about being back in the city cleared his head. Everything before seemed a dream. Was this what post-traumatic stress was like?
Jake took in the colors of clothes and stores as though he'd never seen them before, breathed in the exhaust-filled air that had all the comfort of familiarity, and he kept running. Every time his right tennis shoe hit the sidewalk, he'd think, I have to find someone, someone to give the ring to. Every time his left tennis shoe hit the sidewalk, he'd think, this is the last time the immortal world will screw with my life—did I miss a day with Lily?—did I miss a conference or an episode of BattleBots or that Keats documentary on the History channel or paying rent?
It was his own stupidity that had landed him in hell's desert. If you don't accept candy from strangers, you certainly don't accept magical whistles. But it didn't matter. With every left step, he was less desperate and more angry.
Then, like a miracle, like an IRS refund check, he saw it.
A month ago, a little deli on the corner of 2nd and Cypress had sold out to a music store, and posters had gone up all over the area: JOIN US FOR OUR GRAND OPENING! JULY 5! BEDOUIN RECORDS!!!!
In addition to the balloons and streamers and the group of people clustered outside, Bedouin Records had brought an old friend to the store to help them celebrate their opening day.
Angeline, the camel.
She seemed fairly relaxed in the midst of the crowd. Jake pushed his way through to her. Angeline's owner, a man who wore a screaming orange and yellow tank top with Florida printed across in large letters, held her rope and smiled as children petted Angeline on the nose.
"So, what do camels eat?" Jake asked, trying to sound casual. How could Mr. Florida know what a sinister question it was? It was stupid, he knew, but he wanted to make sure the camel was going to be okay. He glanced at Mr. Florida's watch. 8:15. Had it really taken him half an hour to get this far? And what if it didn't work?
"They eat oats. Hay. Yeah, oats and hay."
"Could they live off palm leaves?"
Mr. Florida scratched his chin. "Yeah. They'd have to have water, though. Palm leaves and water. Yeah." He patted Angeline's side. "She's getting old. Needs peace and quiet."
Okey-dokey, Jake thought, and as soon as Mr. Florida turned his head, Jake took the ring off and put the whistle up to Angeline's mouth. He heard the sound as a little of her breath passed through the whistle, then the next sound, like a small, high-pitched snort, and Angeline and the whistle-ring were gone.
Jake took a deep breath of relief and stepped back into the crowd as half of the people gasped and screamed and began searching the street frantically and the other half applauded the amazing vanishing camel trick.