Jason Brooks

He barely glanced at the abstract art on the walls and wasn't fazed when the carpet transformed into tile that looked exactly like his mother's kitchen.

When he reached his door, he didn't think about how he knew it was his.

He simply opened it and turned on the lights, shivering in the chilly air.

He was greeted by a crowd of chairs, wooden chairs, rocking chairs, leather chairs, you name it, it was there.

The only other furniture was a single bed tucked into the corner.

Jason dropped his bag by the door and made his way through the maze of chairs towards the bed.

He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

He was hot, boiling even.

And was that steam?

He opened his eyes and found himself in a vat of boiling water.

He yelled, momentarily convinced he was being cooked alive.

Then the smell of chlorine hit him, and he realized he was in a hot tub.

He raised his wet, wrinkly fingers to his face.

How long had he been here?

How did he get here?

He pushed himself over the side and slid onto the cold tiles.

His brain felt slow and sluggish, but his body was somehow invigorated, as if he'd been in a cold plunge rather than a hot tub.

He was suddenly aware of static coming from a radio on a nearby table.

He could faintly make out a song beneath the noise.

Without thinking, he adjusted the dial until he could hear it clearly.