Book.

Part One; Chapter Two

You know that feeling you get when you wake up and don’t know where you are?

Yeah. Scares the crap out of me, too.

After a moment of pure disorientation, I finally came to grips with my foggy memory.

Writers’ meeting.

Getting lost.

Weird city.

Hotel.

Right.

I slipped out from underneath the thin, blossomy covers. My toes curled in indignation when they came into contact with the rough carpeting below. Despite the less-than homey feel, I was grateful for anything at this point. I shuffled into the small adjoining powder room and cranked the cold water faucet as hard and freezing as it could go.

I splashed the icy water on my face a few times. It was so cold that it burned my flesh, but it sure woke me up quickly.

Lightly dabbing my face dry with the rough tissues provided, I realized that a good portion of my usually-hidden swarm of freckles was deciding to flaunt itself that day. Muttering my disapproval, I scowled at each group of blemishes. I had tried everything in the better part of my underclassman years to get rid of the spots, but they stubbornly refused to leave. Eventually I had simply given up on them, but every so often they resurfaced in mockery.

A sturdy rapping sounded at my faux-wood door to the right of me. I glared back at the freckles. You win this time, I acknowledged, before unlatching the lock on the door and opening it.

Two men in police officers’ clothing stood in front of me. One had a very pink complexion, and quite an impressive patch of facial hair underneath his fat nose. Speaking of fat, the rest of him followed in trend. His waistline was thicker than the circumference of a decently-sized hula hoop. His entire body was rotund, but not in a grotesque way--more Santa Claus than Biggest Loser contestant. A small plate clipped onto his gray uniform read: Ofc. Miller Morris.

The other policeman was the polar opposite of his colleague. Stick-thin and sickly looking, his face was the palest shade of white I had ever seen on a living, breathing human being. His color-drained eyes were weepy and red-rimmed; his deathly purple lips dry and cracked. His bony fingers quaked as he lifted a ballpoint pen and a clipboard to his wavering chest. He looked like one of the “Not Even Once” meth posters at my high school. I could only read the last half of his nameplate--Trenton--because the rest of it looked like it was written in Russian.

I just stood there, waiting for them to say something, but nothing happened. An abundance of awkward in this situation, I finally yawned: “Can I help you?”

Miller Morris nodded curtly. “Name?”

“Mona,” I said habitually. This was my latest effort at a nickname, so naturally, when meeting new people, I called myself that. Never for once before the name tumbled about my thick skull and hopped out of my big mouth, had I considered that lying to police officers was even the slightest bit illegal. Immediately I cringed and admitted: “I mean, Ramona.”

The ability to lie had never been one of my strong points. I was such a bad actress that I couldn’t even make it into my fifth grade play, and I think we all know the standard performing dexterity that is provided organically to any given cluster of ten year olds.

Miller Morris gave me an odd look, raised a graying, frizzy eyebrow, then grumbled brusquely: “Full name. Lands sakes, I haven’t got all day, girl.”

“Ramona Chastity Atlund.”

“How--”

“Chastity, like the virtue. Gets me all the guys. And it’s Atlund: A-T-L-U-N-D.”