Waking up was not a singular event. It was a slow, agonizing process of being dragged from the bottom of a deep, dark ocean, fighting the pressure every inch of the way.
Noah opened his eyes. The ceiling was white. No, wait. It was beige. It was the kennel.
He tried to sit up, but his head felt like it was filled with wet cotton. His limbs were heavy, disconnected, as if he were operating a puppet with loose strings. His mouth tasted of metal and strawberries.
"Wakey..." the intercom crackled. The voice was distorted. Slow. Deep. "...wakey..."
Noah groaned. His tongue felt too big for his mouth.
Who am I?
The question floated in the fog. He grasped for an answer, but there was nothing. Just a blank slate. A white wall where a name should be.
He stumbled out of the room. The hallway seemed longer than usual. The walls breathed in and out, the red carpet pulsing like a vein. The Siamese guards were just blurs of beige and brown, their hisses sounding like distant radio static.
He floated to the Oval Office. The door opened with a groan.
Mr. Purr-sident was there. His mouth was moving.
"Meow... mrph... garble... mission..."
Noah squinted. The cat looked like a smudge of ink on wet paper. The desk seemed miles away.
"I can't..." Noah slurred, leaning against the doorframe. "I can't hear you."
The cat slammed a paw on the desk. The vibration traveled through the floor and up Noah's legs, shaking his bones. A piece of paper fluttered toward him, carried by an invisible draft.
Noah picked it up. His vision swam, trying to focus on the text. The letters danced.
The Wooden Vessel.
"Vessel," Noah murmured. The word felt strange, alien. "Boat."
He turned and walked out. He didn't bow. He didn't say goodbye. He just needed air. The air in the palace was too thick, smelling of medicine and stale catnip. It was choking him.
He found himself outside. The rain had stopped, but a thick, pea-soup fog had rolled in, erasing the tops of the skyscrapers. He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against something cold and hard.
The Ring.
He pulled it out. He looked at the dull diamonds.
A spark. A synapse firing in the dark.
Yesterday. The rain. The sand. The lady in white.
"With this ring..."
"The sand," Noah whispered. The fog in his brain thinned, just a fraction. "The boat was on the sand. I saw it. Navigating the dunes."
He didn't know why, but the thought of a boat on sand felt important. It felt like a key.
He started to run.