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When I opened my eyes my feet were the feet of a baby: I wore red baby shoes with thin blue stripes and white soles.
I looked at my hand. Cracked skin, veins branching out on the back of it, the hand of a grown man. Odd to see it without the black needle between forefinger and thumb, useless.
I got up (I'd been sitting cross-legged in the middle of the street, who knows how long) and walked toward the sidewalk as cars skidded, honking, drivers gaping at me from side-windows with their hands as if screwing in light bulbs before their faces.
I am perfectly fine, I thought, just transported. The record player. From the box in the basement.
