ARRIVAL (ERA 1)

3 | Preparation

"No. NO!"

I wake, screaming. A violent sweat rips me from the clutch of my nightmare and drops me back in my bed. The hospital gown clings to my body. The sheets are damp with perspiration.

I lie back on the pillow and fan myself with the blanket, replaying the scene in my head.

I was running. I heard voices, quiet voices, and I was running away from them. I could smell the ocean and feel its salty spray tickling my cheeks. The ground was barely visible and very slippery. I kept stumbling and the voices kept following.

Then I woke up.

None of it makes sense. I can't remember anything before the forest and no one here seems to know who I am. I haven't seen anything recognizable –no landmarks or familiar buildings. There aren't even real buildings here. No roads or cars or traffic lights or state signs. No signs at all –unless you count the outdated street names carved into wooden pickets.

The clock above the station ticks away. 5:09. I am drenched in sweat but my throat is dry as parchment. The slender candle Tria lit last night has been reduced to a sad stub.

I stare at the ceiling, at the waxy droplets, and the shadows on the wall of candles that haven't died yet. Across the aisle, the screaming patients rattle their bed cages, jumping, shrieking, and clambering about. It's animalistic. I wonder what's wrong with them.

I take another swig of my pain reliever. The only pain that remains is from my headache.

I stare at my feet. At the foot of my bed, a tan tri-fold pamphlet is leaning against a stack of fresh bandages.

"It came in this morning," says Tria, watching me from the wall.

I look up at her and then back at the pamphlet. She walks over and hands me the folded parchment.

"Here." She hands it to me. "It may help you better understand..."

Understand what? –Is what I wish I could say. But I don't. I stay mute as she redresses my bandages.

The paper is thick, but soft. Sketched in brown ink along the top is Welcome, Unidentified No. 1399. The bottom reads Administered by Refinery, est. Kemper 2701. On the front is a picture of a sculptured waterwheel mill with protruding steel rods and iron spigots.

The entire pamphlet is handwritten, or at least it seems to be, in a neat uniformed script. Each new section has its own bold-print header. There are Rules, Registration, Evaluation, Treatment & Care, and Discharge.

"It looks official, I know. I promise it's not nearly as intimidating as it seems," Tria says.

I focus on the headlines.

It's a pamphlet for something called a refugee, but why are they showing me this? It makes no sense. I roll the paper back to the front and stare at No. 1399.

I pull back the sleeve of my hospital gown and stare at the purple tag fastened to my left forearm. Same number. No mistake here, this pamphlet is certainly intended for me.

"You are confused, aren't you?" Tria asks, refilling the glass of water on my bedside table.

She stares between the pamphlet in my hands and the quizzical look on my face.

"Oh don't worry. They hand those out to everyone. Someone will come and explain everything to you in person. We just need to clear your medical state first and have you registered."