Suddenly and silently, Jerry stopped moving. I nearly ran into him as I watched for tricky steps in the fading sunlight. He came to a halt at the edge of a small mesa, completely clear of the brush we had climbed through. In the center of the clearing was the telescope. It surprised me to see it, I suppose I had assumed it was still in the bed of my truck, but here it was.

I looked toward Jerry and he returned a thousand-yard stare. I looked at the telescope and back at Jerry. He was impassive as ever, so I slowly continued moving forward in the direction of the telescope. The wooden stand and bronzed exterior of the telescope were all familiar to me, but nothing else was. Looking around at the scenery, it seemed like I had travelled for months, over incredible distances, to get to this point. The only things I recognized were the telescope and Jerry, behind me, standing stock-still.

A telescope sitting alone on a mesa, assembled and pointed toward the heavens, is an invitation. It’s a formal invitation, delivered by snail mail, printed on linen paper with the pointless piece of tissue paper that flutters out of the envelope when you open it; the kind it’s nearly impossible to refuse. Who was I, then, to deny this telescope?

I lowered my head to the eyepiece and gazed through the lenses and mirrors out into the vast space, millions of miles away. I saw nothing, however. Just darkness within the telescope. I pulled back, checked the front of the telescope for a lens cover, and, finding none, looked into the eyepiece again.

Once more I was greeted by nothing but darkness, a black as black as any I had ever seen. When I pulled back from the telescope I found myself enveloped by the same impenetrable darkness. The mesa, Jerry, the forest, the night sky -- all gone. My surroundings were like a sensory-deprivation chamber, or at least what I imagined that to be. There was the blackness, myself, and the telescope.

Just then I heard something behind me, a knocking. I turned around and saw a door with faded white paint. I took a couple steps toward it and pulled it open, sticking my head outside. The blackness around me was replaced by twilight again, but I was not on the mesa with Jerry and the telescope. Instead I stared out at three children with beautiful black skin under ragged clothes, one wearing a “Cleveland Indians 2016 World Series Champions” t-shirt.

“Mr. Ulloa,” the tallest child said. I looked to either side of me, looking for another man, then back at him, staring expectantly at me.

“Yes?” I said hesitantly.

“Do you have any more meat for our family?”

I didn’t know how to respond. Did I? Why would I? Where was I?

“Not right now,” was all I could think to say. The kids turned, sadly, and retreated down the narrow street. I looked after them, noting the surroundings. In the distance I saw snow-capped mountains, in gaps between mud houses I could see a fertile river valley, and everywhere I saw people, Africans, going about their business, into and out of homes, crossing streets, and cutting between buildings.

I pulled myself back inside, half expecting the nothingness again, only to find myself in a small, rectangular, one-room dwelling. The room was actually a converted shipping container with a door at either end; inside I had a hot plate, cot, books, small television, and bottles of water, among other things in various bins and such. The “back door” was more of a curtain, behind which was an area covered by an ad hoc awning. The back had what I would graciously term a bathroom -- a three-sided curtained off area with a bucket and a water hose -- and a table, upon which a dead goat lay.

I did not linger at the back, retreating back into the hut instead. I set myself down on the cot and noticed a name tag next to the bed. I picked it up and immediately noticed my picture. The surprising part, however, was the Médecins Sans Frontières logo and the name: Drake Ulloa.

Then it hit me. I was living my novel: Dracula’s Miracles.

Drake Ulloa was Dracula’s vaguely Spanish pseudonym. Things were clicking now: the goat out back was not a goat, but a kudu; the village was somewhere near Homa Bay; I was in Doctors Without Borders. These things came back to me easily. I had researched them what I considered extensively, written and rewritten compulsively, and edited and pondered obsessively; the details I had created were ingrained in my mind. But I could not remember where I had left off.

Laying back on the cot, I tried to replay the most recent writing I’d done in my head. It had been a while since I had written anything. So long that I was struggling to remember the last time I’d put pen to paper. It was before Michaela had left, but how long before? The story had hit a lull after villagers discovered the drained kudu. My ideas of what would happen after that just failed to flow; my creativity was dammed up.

This was probably to be expected, as I knew so little about anything I was writing. I had not been to Africa, nor had I been any closer to Africa than the eastern seaboard of the United States. Ocean City, Maryland, was still more than 7,000 miles from Homa Bay, so my frame of reference was lacking, to say the least.

I did not lay back on the cot long before I heard a noise in the back. I stood, walked to the curtain, pulled it back and saw the children, drowning in their incorrect championship attire, poking at the kudu on the table. They were speaking rapidly, but not in English, in Bantu or Nilotic, I couldn’t remember, or, more accurately, had no way of knowing -- my rudimentary research couldn’t help me here. Their chatter got more excited and they leaned in close, they obviously had never seen the animal drained of nearly all its blood, nor were they familiar with the marks on its body from my teeth. They hummed with a nervous excitement until a small boy noticed me and screamed, turning on his heels and running away from my residence as fast as he could.

The other boys looked up and shot looks of sheer panic my way before following their friend, flying away in old Nikes, some without laces. I watched the boys flee and felt the blood drain from my own head as I realized they’d tell their parents or other adults and bring them back here, where they would question me and would no doubt become upset at my lack of adequate answers. I didn’t want to find out what would they might think to do after the questioning, so I grabbed a water bottle and went out the front at a brisk walk.

I strode with purpose down the dusty brown streets, looking all around me for signs of anything untoward, but avoiding staring at anyone thing for too long. I turned at corners randomly, only making sure I was not going in a circle and headed away from the direction the boys were running. The humid air, my pace, and my nerves took my breath from me quickly, leaving me panting and dripping sweat as I walked randomly.

My meandering course eventually wound to the business district of town, where the color of my skin stood in stark relief to the natives. I felt extremely conspicuous and slowed my pace, passing the market and bank at a more comfortable click while I tried to control my breathing. A group of men gathered outside the mosque before afternoon prayers gave me a sideways glance, but none came forward to halt my progress.

As the busy section of town started to fade out around me, I felt a little more at ease. I could see the bay of Lake Victoria ahead of me, with its green-brown water lapping gently at the beach, a noise that drew me toward it. At the beachhead I veered hard to the west and found a secluded spot under the cover of some scrubby plants to sit and rest for a moment. I opened my water bottle and greedily chugged at least 10 of its 20 ounces in a couple deep glugs.

Thirst contented, I laid back in the brush and looked into the sky. I tried to tell time by the sun, but I had no idea what day it was, nor where the sun typically was this close to the equator. I knew it was after noon, but that’s all I knew. A soft breeze rustled the brush around me and cooled my skin and surrounded me with the fragrance of mud and aquatic plants. The fertile field around me swayed in the breeze, providing a white noise that eased my nerves. I was not wholly confident I hadn’t been followed to my peaceful lakeside spot, but I allowed myself to close my eyes anyway.

I don’t know how long I laid on my back, but after some time I was awoken by a gruff yelling.

“Over here! He’s over here!”

By some back of the napkin math, I figure I was travelling roughly 67,007 miles per hour when I collided. I tried explained this to my boss, telling him it was fortunate the wooden pallet was all that was destroyed at such speeds. He gave me an oafish, slack-jawed stare for a few seconds before detailing how much would be taken from my paycheck and politely commanded me to return to work.

I didn’t bother to explain the joke. In my head I imagined his pupils dilating into the white and a trickle of blood seeping from his ear as I explained that the addition of the speed of the forklift plus the earth around the sun would come out to some 67,007 miles per hour. This humored me, but my math was probably wrong anyway. If I had been better at math this moon-faced goober probably would not be my boss.

Fifty dollars for a pallet. There’s some math. Some old wood that was rough-sawn and sprayed with noxious chemicals, tacked together by a robot, and beaten up for months on end by machines and humans (and machines driven by humans), and it was still worth $50. According to ANT, they all were. The new ones, the blue ones, the plastic ones, the white ones. The one missing four boards was $50. So was the one that collapsed under a bundle of fasteners, although I guess ANT had to write that one off.

I couldn’t write off the $50 I owed for the pallet I rolled the forklift over. I don’t even know what it means to write something off. When I filed my taxes I used the EZ form. Was there a line on the long form where you could write in items you had broken and had to pay for? It’s probably worth looking for that next April, because I’d like to see that $50 back.

It’s pretty fortunate that I haven’t done this before. I’m not exactly the best driver on the loading dock. I’m better than Brenda, who backed her pallet jack into a shelf hard enough to dislodge a bundle of paper towels three levels up. The towels landed four feet from the dock supervisor. And even though they were towels, the bundle weighed enough to crush his burly frame. He shit his pants. Brenda was asked not to return.

I guess having $50 taken from my paycheck is better than losing my job, but it still hurts. Those of us who work for ANT on the dock start above minimum wage, but only enough to make the corporate guys look as if they care about anyone in the lower class other than the au pair they’re sleeping with. That amount is 50 cents. This, of course, doesn’t include the gloves we’re required to have but have to pay for out of our pocket or paycheck. Ditto the safety glasses, box cutter (and blades), steel-toed boots, and lifting belt (if necessary).

I’ve been here for three years now, and I’ve seen a lot of Brendas come and go in that short time, but I’ve only managed to work my way up to $1.25 above minimum wage. So, I stewed on that $50 pallet I smashed for the rest of my shift. And the car ride home. And the three hours before Michaela came home.

“I have to pay $50 for breaking a pallet,” I said to her before she could hang her keys on the hook by the door.

“It’s nice to see you too,” she replied without smiling. “The hell?”

I nestled myself deeper into the couch cushion, hoping it might deflect some of her attitude. I had hoped she’d offer something more sympathetic. “Someone left a pallet out and I ran it over. I guess they cost $50. It’ll come out of my next paycheck.”

She rolled her eyes as she crossed the linoleum between the entrance and the refrigerator. As she ducked her head inside to look for a drink she said, “Well that’s great. I suppose that $50 will be on me when rent is due?”

I had no response for that. Well, that’s not true entirely, I did, but I didn’t want to share it. Two months ago a parking ticket--a severely overdue and long-forgotten parking ticket--had cost me $75 of my portion of the rent, which Michaela had covered not out of charity or goodwill or love, but more a sense of not wanting to get evicted.

“How was your day?” I deflected.

“Good enough, I suppose. James did some coke at lunch and came back with an erection.” She offered this nonchalantly. Not because it didn’t bother her, at least I think not, but because her boss had done this before. Several times.

Michaela worked as a receptionist at a downtown art gallery. It was small and white. There were never more than a dozen works on display. The walls around what passed for art in our town were pristine flat white. The ceilings were open to the rafters and ductwork, but all sprayed white. The floors were white marble. Her boss, James Bingham, a white guy with an Ivy League degree in art history, preferred Michaela wear white, but she only acquiesced during openings. Most days her floral tops or neon scarves were the only pops of color in the narrow space.

I think James accepted this because he was a letch and didn’t particularly care what she was wearing.

On the rare days our shifts diverged significantly, I’d take lunch to the art gallery for Michaela. We’d sit at her desk quietly and watch people walk past the window while downing peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or lukewarm pizza rolls. When James would notice I was around, he would come in and deliberately flirt with Michaela. He’d compliment her skin and casually reach into his chino pockets and drop his money clip when he pulled his hand out. That kind of thing. When I wasn’t around he’d do coke and get an erection and she’d try to avert her eyes but would inevitably notice the little tent in his too-tight white pants.

So I wasn’t worried, I just put faith in the idea Michaela wanted nothing to do with whatever earned James all the money he had to spend on things like an art gallery. Or cocaine. Instead I was worried about a $50 pallet and how that money would be replaced.

“You should really quit ANT,” Michaela suggested as if it were a new idea. Then sauntered into the bedroom to toss her bag in the corner and swap shoes for slippers.

After getting her slippers, Michaela settled in on the couch and watched an episode of a network true crime show. Then she headed out to a bar to meet friends or something. I don’t know. I hadn’t been paying close attention to anything. My mind was only half there.

After she left I slinked to the return duct in the farthest corner of the bedroom of our one-bedroom apartment, where I kept a stash of personal belongings. Michaela and I had been together for two years and lived together for more than six months now, but I still didn’t feel comfortable sharing this stuff with her. Just behind the grate were only a few things: a journal, my father’s watch, an envelope with $273--my savings for a new laptop--and an old silver dollar I kept for good luck (and because it was presumably worth money).

I never dared opening removing any of these items while Michaela was around. When we moved in together she had made fun of the old Seiko diver’s watch with its tarnished metal band, so I put it away and stored with it anything else that might be the subject of derision. My journal was really nothing special, and probably not worth reading, but I kept notes of what happened each day dutifully. In my mind, this would be invaluable to my future biographer after I became president or developed some groundbreaking technology. Maybe a way to reconstruct broken pallets or something.

I had grabbed my screwdriver from the fix-it drawer in the kitchen, which held things like a small hammer, a pair of scissors, loose nails, and a clamp--everything the young handyman would need before deciding to call the landlord to have something fixed. In the bedroom I stood on the bed to reach the vent. I carefully unscrewed the vent and retrieved the journal. It was a dollar store spiral-wound notebook with a highlighter orange cover. The corners had been dulled and pulled up at the edges. Dust permanently speckled the cover by this point, giving it a heathered appearance. About 100 of the 300 pages had any writing on them, but this covered the last three years of my existence. Entries were short, usually no more than a paragraph. They detailed the big events of the day and an occasional comment. For example:

“Feb. 23, 2015 -- After work Michaela and I went ice skating. She had never been, so I had to show her how to skate. I don’t think she trusted me much, because she’d freak out whenever I tried to hold her hand. She fell many times and it’s hard to not laugh at someone who keeps wiping out. I think she liked it though.”

It was dull.

But, I faithfully inscribed the details of the incident on the loading dock out of obligation more than anything and then placed it back in the vent.