He woke up left for dead. Where am I? he asked, scanning his environs. Pavement. White dotted lines. A highway.

What’s that over there? A dead body. Shot in the head. A raging inferno in the background, the smoldering remains of what used to be a car. Am I responsible for this?

Who am I? He pulled out his wallet, scanned his ID. Terry Jones.

He walked toward a tan Chevy Nova. Bullet holes.
Another bloody corpse. Did I kill him? Did someone try to kill me?

He looked in the side-view mirror. A ghastly reflection. He looked like a prize fighter after twelve rounds. His nose was broken. He was covered in blood. Why am I dressed like Rambo?

His mind flashed.

A hit of ecstasy.
An interrogation room.
A high speed chase.
A collision.
Left for dead.

He felt like he had woken up the morning after a night of heavy drinking, his memory all scrambled. Only he had no friends to fill in the details. One thing was certain: I have to get out of here.