Gasoline. Permeating my senses, filling my nose, it made me sneeze. Not once. Not twice. Three times. That was normal. At least for me, it was. But my curiosity peaked, wondering how I got gasoline on me at all. I hadn’t driven a car in more than a year, utilizing public transportation and ridesharing. My fingers weren’t damp with petroleum fuel, but the smell? It was fading. One thing I’m grateful for is quitting smoking. Several years ago, I stopped that nasty habit. I imagined what would happen if I lit a match now. The fumes alone? It probably would’ve looked like one of those massive Fourth of July fireworks exploding a few miles in the air. Chances are I would’ve flamed up like those rings that horses and motorcycles jump through at circus events or state fairs.

               Before I scrubbed my hands into my eyes, I remembered the gasoline on my fingers. I smelled my hands. Yep. That was gas. Imagine overfilling a lawnmower and getting the gas on your fingers. That’s what it smelled like. I tried to wash off the smell, scrubbing it from my fingers, but all that did was turn my fingers an angry pink color. The hot water and the soap suds foam coated the bottom of the sink. There was something about this that didn’t feel right. It felt like I was off-balance, enough to notice it but not enough to make it evident to anyone around me. Not that there was anyone in my room. Just me. I looked in the bathroom mirror of the room at the Hilton and didn’t recognize myself.

               Puffy purple and black bag wrinkles lined the bottom of my eyes, indicating that I hadn’t slept in a few days. At least, that’s what I assumed. The aches in my neck and shoulders helped support that observation. My hair was greasy, sticking up in so many different places. Based on my hair alone, I looked like one of those homeless guys drinking a 16-ounce beer from a paper bag. As for my facial hair, it grew slow, coming in spots over my face. It was rare for it to fill in the above my chin on my cheeks. Looking in the mirror, I could see it had been at least a week since I last shaved. How did I let it grow so long without doing anything with it? I didn’t know. For the moment, the beard was the least of my concerns.

                     The phone rang, startling me. It’d been years since I heard an actual telephone ring. And I do mean ring. Not chime. Not chirp. Not a ringtone sound. A real bell ringing, like the old doorbells. A bell! What are the odds? I blinked a few times, not sure I heard what I thought I heard. But then I saw it, sitting on the nightstand by the bed, a red light flashing with each ring. After the fourth ring, I thought maybe, just maybe, it’d stop. But it didn’t.

               “Hello?”

               The voice on the other end of the line was staticky, garbled like it was transmitted through a rock tumbler or a dryer full of gravel.

               “Hello? Is there anyone there?”

               The static cleared, and the voice was crisp in an instant. “Can you hear me now?”

               “Yes. I can hear you. Who is this?”

               “Seriously? You are asking me that now?”

               “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I?”

               “You got a point there.”

               “Who is this?”

               “Mr. Danica, you know who this is.”

                “Yes, but why are you calling me? And where are you? It sounds like you are in a tunnel somewhere.”

               “My apologies for the static and echo. It seems technology doesn’t work all the time here. Not like in the States.”

               “You calling from another country?”

               “Are you sure you are okay, Mr. Danica? We may need to put our business on hold. At least, that is, until you figure out what is going on with you. I assume you know what happened two days, yes?”

               My head was still in the clouds, and I had no idea what the voice on the phone was talking about.

               “Of course I’m fine. Our business must conclude by the end of the week, per our original agreement.” The statement must be rote because I rattled it off without blinking. I was still looking at the figure in the mirror, the one I was still trying to figure out if it was me. I blinked a few times, staring into the mirror above the television. Tethered to the phone’s base unit felt unreal, almost like it wasn’t happening. But it was. And the voice on the other end seemed nonplussed about my demand.

               “Mr. Danica, you know we will conclude our business. My concern, of course, is for your health and well-being. But if you are prepared to conclude our . . .”

               I didn’t give the voice a chance to reply. “Viktor, I said it once. I will not repeat myself. I am ready and more than capable of concluding our business. And if you dare question my ability to do so, I’m afraid that would be an abysmal decision. Am I clear?”

                Viktor laughed, big, deep, and heavy like his voice. “Mr. Danica, there is no need to get nasty. We will be at your office at the end of the week.” I heard someone speaking to him in Russia, and his response was a flat ‘Da. Proshchay.’ “Mr. Danica, any further delays will be considered an act of aggression and disrespecting your Russian ancestors.”

               “Da, Viktor. Do svidaniya.”

               “Do svidaniya, Mr. Danica.”

               I cradled the receiver, wondering what deal Viktor was referring to. And what about the news? I wasn’t sure what that was about, either. “Mr. Danica,” I said, staring at my reflection, “What the hell happened last night?”