He’d turned on the TV and paused it. The picture was frozen on a talking head for a local news station. I don’t watch the news, so I didn’t know which one. Watch an hour of news and you’re living in Armageddon. Look out your window and you’ll find songbirds and smiling people. The two don’t add up. The difference, I guess, is that nature isn’t an advertising platform for oil companies. At least, not yet.

“Take a seat,” Al said.

I’ve learned it’s typically best to do as Al says, so I did.

He rewound the feed and stopped it. “You’re sure you told me everything you remember from the last couple of days?” he asked. “I’m serious. You need to shoot straight right now.”

“Al, I swear, man.” The frozen image on the TV screen was foreboding. “I’ve told you all I know.”

Al sighed. “Okay, watch this.” He hit play.

Looking closely now, I recognized the news anchor, but not because I’d watched his program. It was the same guy I’d seen on the monitor screens in the surveillance room. Or guys I should say, plural.

Blue blazer, white shirt, grey striped tie. The polished oak desk appeared authentic, as did the professional backdrop. The station logo was stamped in the lower right-hand corner of the screen like you’d expect. The anchor started talking and a photo of my car on the side of the highway where I had been abducted appeared in a box next to his head.

“Police are still looking for the whereabouts of local rock musician Lance Caspian, who was last seen performing a reunion concert in a small club outside of Atlanta Saturday night. He is reported to have left the club with his bandmate, Jesse Wheeler, who has gone missing as well. Wheeler’s car was found abandoned on the side of I-20, and appears to have been the scene of foul play. While responding officers are withholding specifics at this time, we do know that blood was discovered on location, and that it is currently being analyzed to determine whether it matches either man. Anyone with information regarding the whereabouts of Lance Caspian or Jesse Wheeler is asked to please contact their local police officials with details.”

It was then that I honestly wondered if I was suffering some kind of delirium. If my shattered mind, in an attempt to establish context and identity, had concocted this conspiracy and placed me at its center. This was padded-room-grade paranoia. Nothing else made sense. “That’s not real,” I said.

Al stared thoughtfully at the TV screen. “What isn’t real?”