Through the Storm

Chapter Twelve

Sunday, September 9, 2007, 9:20 p.m.

"Hey! Are you alright?" a man's voice shouted into my ear.
"He was gonna run out of here without paying, then I saw him just pass out," the waitress said.

"How long has he been unconscious?" someone else asked.

"About ten minutes," the waitress said.

Great. I'd never be able to show my face here again. I stared straight up at the ceiling, willing myself to get off the floor. It was a slow process, but I eventually managed to stand, with the help of the manager.

"Sorry, just a little light-headed...um, low blood sugar," I mumbled.

The manager stepped in front of me. "Maybe we should call an ambulance instead of the police?"

Police? Damn!

The waitress was tapping her foot again, holding up my wallet.

"His credit card was declined. I think it's a fake or a copy of some kind."

Uh-oh.
"Actually, I've got another one and some cash."

"Yeah, two dollars. And I tried the other cards. All declined," the waitress said.

I glanced around her shoulder, looking for my Spanish teacher, Miss Ramsey. She'd get me out of this mess. But an older couple was now seated at her table. Must have been a short date. "Just let me call...my dad."

A police officer was already strolling inside with another one following. He snatched the wallet from the waitress's hand and pulled out my license.
"Issued in 2008? Interesting. And these look like the real deal. Professional."

That's because they are real. And when did I run out of cash?

The officer holding my wallet glared at me, then looked over at the manager. "We'll take care of this. Probably drugs."

"It usually is," the manager said, shaking his head.

"And with the looks of this wallet full of false documents, I'd guess addict and dealer," the officer said.

The sneer on his face really pissed me off and I opened my mouth again.
"Yeah, because drug dealers find it helpful to make false documents that only work a year from now."

"Smart-ass," he muttered under his breath.

I tried to move away from them, but he cop not holding my wallet blocked my way while the other grabbed my arms and put handcuffs around my wrists. Anger bubbled up in me and I started to wiggle away.

Don't make this worse, I told myself.
And don't bother with jumping.

I'd just end up right back here and my vegetable state would probably make me look even more like a drug addict.

Every single patron in this place stared as I was led out of the restaurant and into the back of a squad car.
Seriously, could my life get any worse right now?

Yes, it could. Now I'd have to call my dad to bail me out of jail.

My dad, who almost killed me in 2003.
This should be a freaking blast.

*

"Hey, Hoying, someone's here to see you," the police officer said.

I rubbed the blurriness out of my eyes and sat up from the bench I had passed out on in the cell. My jail cell. Because I'm a badass criminal. Or a really irresponsible time traveler who fails to collect proper and authentic documentation.