help, that’s why I’m telling you this. When she’s ready she will let us know and then you’ll focus. How does all that sound?”
Shuman? Really? That’s who’s sending me this message? Good thing I’m indifferent to these results. After casting a skeptical glance at Amber I resign and lie down on the bed. I’ll play the part of a lab rat just this once.
“Great,” she says with a disingenuous smile. “Now first I’m going to stick a few of these sensors on you.” She begins placing little round, plastic-covered sensors on my head, face, and chest. They’re covered in tape and attached to wires. “Now if you do fall asleep then you’ll be disqualified from this task,” the lady warns. “Next I’m going to place these over your eyes to block out any visual stimulation.” She shows me what appears to be a ping-pong ball sliced in half. I nod consent and close my eyes. Once in place the small circular objects rest precariously along the curvature of my eye sockets. “Lastly I’m about to put headphones over your ears. They will block out any auditory stimulation. When Shuman is ready to send you the message I will tap your wrist three times. Until then you should relax, focus, and stay awake. When you believe you’ve received the message in its entirety then click this.” She places a cylinder object in my hand and positions my finger over a small button. “I’ll record the message and you’ll be free to go.”
Apparently, there’s no time for questions. The lady promptly clamps headphones over my ears and all I hear from that point forward is static. Unable to see or hear and locked in a closet with an uptight scientist is probably the strangest predicament I’ve been placed in thus far, which is saying a lot. This almost makes me laugh. I suppress it.
I need a strategy. Something that will help me to open up a channel to receive this message. I picture a telephone. I know the telephone is about to ring. Allowing my mind to remember the sound of Shuman’s voice I imagine she’s on the other end. My breaths lengthen. Deepen. I keep my mind’s eye trained on the telephone. At least ten minutes pass. Sleep trots through my mind, tempting me to follow it many times. I stay alert. Focused. When Amber’s cold, bony fingers tap my wrist I’m alert and ready to proceed.
I focus on the telephone. Nothing happens. I steal a long breath and decide to pick up the receiver, even though it hasn’t rung. It is light blue and done in the old rotary style. On the other end there’s no dial tone. “Hello,” I hear myself say. There’s no reply. What am I going to do if I don’t get a message? Should I make something up? I lay the receiver back down. The smoothness of the plastic in my hand is real. When the receiver meets the cradle it falls into place comfortably. I stare at the silent phone, willing it to ring. It sits soundlessly, mocking me with its stillness. Erupting with emotion I yank the receiver off the cradle again and hold it up to my ear.
Nothing. No dial tone. No voice. No message. I run my fingers along the seam of the front and back part of the receiver in a nervous fashion. Even in my visualizations my strange habits still shine through. I laugh in my mind and swear I hear it out loud, through the static.
This is stupid. A waste of time. Of resources. Why are we all doing this? It’s absurd. I bring my attention to my physical reality. The remote in my hand. The button just under my finger, waiting to be pushed. That would end this whole experiment.
As I must do, even in my visualizations, I take the receiver once more and go to replace it on its cradle, where it belongs. When it’s almost there a voice splinters through my consciousness. Low. Muffled. But still it erupts from the light blue phone, catching my attention. With a jerk I hold the receiver to my ear.
“Incoming. Incoming. Incoming,” the voice on the other end of the line speaks. And then quite clearly it gives a
Shuman? Really? That’s who’s sending me this message? Good thing I’m indifferent to these results. After casting a skeptical glance at Amber I resign and lie down on the bed. I’ll play the part of a lab rat just this once.
“Great,” she says with a disingenuous smile. “Now first I’m going to stick a few of these sensors on you.” She begins placing little round, plastic-covered sensors on my head, face, and chest. They’re covered in tape and attached to wires. “Now if you do fall asleep then you’ll be disqualified from this task,” the lady warns. “Next I’m going to place these over your eyes to block out any visual stimulation.” She shows me what appears to be a ping-pong ball sliced in half. I nod consent and close my eyes. Once in place the small circular objects rest precariously along the curvature of my eye sockets. “Lastly I’m about to put headphones over your ears. They will block out any auditory stimulation. When Shuman is ready to send you the message I will tap your wrist three times. Until then you should relax, focus, and stay awake. When you believe you’ve received the message in its entirety then click this.” She places a cylinder object in my hand and positions my finger over a small button. “I’ll record the message and you’ll be free to go.”
Apparently, there’s no time for questions. The lady promptly clamps headphones over my ears and all I hear from that point forward is static. Unable to see or hear and locked in a closet with an uptight scientist is probably the strangest predicament I’ve been placed in thus far, which is saying a lot. This almost makes me laugh. I suppress it.
I need a strategy. Something that will help me to open up a channel to receive this message. I picture a telephone. I know the telephone is about to ring. Allowing my mind to remember the sound of Shuman’s voice I imagine she’s on the other end. My breaths lengthen. Deepen. I keep my mind’s eye trained on the telephone. At least ten minutes pass. Sleep trots through my mind, tempting me to follow it many times. I stay alert. Focused. When Amber’s cold, bony fingers tap my wrist I’m alert and ready to proceed.
I focus on the telephone. Nothing happens. I steal a long breath and decide to pick up the receiver, even though it hasn’t rung. It is light blue and done in the old rotary style. On the other end there’s no dial tone. “Hello,” I hear myself say. There’s no reply. What am I going to do if I don’t get a message? Should I make something up? I lay the receiver back down. The smoothness of the plastic in my hand is real. When the receiver meets the cradle it falls into place comfortably. I stare at the silent phone, willing it to ring. It sits soundlessly, mocking me with its stillness. Erupting with emotion I yank the receiver off the cradle again and hold it up to my ear.
Nothing. No dial tone. No voice. No message. I run my fingers along the seam of the front and back part of the receiver in a nervous fashion. Even in my visualizations my strange habits still shine through. I laugh in my mind and swear I hear it out loud, through the static.
This is stupid. A waste of time. Of resources. Why are we all doing this? It’s absurd. I bring my attention to my physical reality. The remote in my hand. The button just under my finger, waiting to be pushed. That would end this whole experiment.
As I must do, even in my visualizations, I take the receiver once more and go to replace it on its cradle, where it belongs. When it’s almost there a voice splinters through my consciousness. Low. Muffled. But still it erupts from the light blue phone, catching my attention. With a jerk I hold the receiver to my ear.
“Incoming. Incoming. Incoming,” the voice on the other end of the line speaks. And then quite clearly it gives a
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