Tattered and faded, it was a wonder that Matt could read it, much less make out the small, subtle details. It was a touch warm down in the small, cramped basement room. But not enough for sweating. Matt’s heart was racing, excitedly recognizing each symbol belonging to an ancient race of people, which he studied while completing his doctorate in anthropology. A smile curled around the corners of his mouth. Licking his dry lips, he wiped the sweat from his forehead. “They told you you were crazy! But,” he paused. “There is no time.” Matt often spoke to himself down here in the basement of his self-imprisoned jail cell. Rolling up the map, Matt ran through stacks of boxes, some full of knick-knacks, tchotchkes, and random objects. Others were empty. The empty ones fell, Matt’s quicking pace knocking them from their precarious positions atop other boxes full or halfway full of junk. His thoughts were jumbled, and he was doing his best to put them together in a cohesive fashion, assembling them the way you would a jigsaw puzzle, starting with the corner and edge pieces.

Sweats returned, soaking his shirt, Matt’s stomach cramping, leaving him crumpled up on the floor in a ball, still holding the map in his hand. After the cramps subsided, he continued moving through the basement, locating an old wooden desk held together with bubble gum and duct tape, figuratively speaking. The truth was the legs were held together with a couple of hinges screwed into the desktop. The top of the makeshift desk that leaned on one leg was covered with papers, some as old as the rolled-up map, others newer printed in the last two weeks. Without hesitation, Matt pushed everything off the desk, unrolled the map, and collapsed to the floor, convulsing.