The Enlightened Read Free Page B

my ribs.
    “Get out of the car and follow me,” the old guy instructs.
    “I can’t see you,” I say. “How can I follow you?”
    “Here, hold on to this piece of rope,” Caleb says. “And if you try anything, I’ll make our prior conversations seem like a fun warm-up.”
    “Where are you taking me?” I ask no one in particular. “What the fuck is going on?”
    “I’ll explain when we get there,” says the stranger in a tone that implies the conversation is now over. He sounds like someone who’s used to giving orders.
    My attempts at starting a conversation to gain information are ignored as we walk. This is probably the most terrifying walk of my life, by the way—also, the most uncomfortable. We walk across gravel roads, grass, a forested area, and hot asphalt, just to name a few of the horrid terrains. None of these surfaces are exactly friendly to my bare feet.
    After what feels like a day or more of walking, we stop.
    “Take that awful thing off his head,” says the older man.
    Caleb grabs the black hood and roughly rips it off.
    “You nearly broke my neck,” I complain, feeling something akin to whiplash, but no one deigns to give me a response.
    The bright light hurts my eyes but only for a second. Recovery time is definitely quicker in the Quiet than in real time. My feet are already healing. It’s odd. I’ve never stuck around in the Quiet long enough to recover from an injury, not when phasing out is so much easier. I was derelict in my science, apparently. This is useful information and adds more credibility to Eugene’s theory that only our consciousness enters the Quiet and that these bodies aren’t exactly real bodies, but manifestations of the mind. Or something along those lines.
    I examine the old man again. His light blue eyes are looking me up and down with cold curiosity. For someone his age, he’s in okay shape, and his white, slicked-back hair is nearly all there, which is rare, I imagine. Perhaps he’s on the younger end of my age estimation after all? That aside, I still feel justified in mentally calling him ‘Grandpa’ for now.
    I look behind him. We’re standing near grassy plains, the forest we walked through visible in the distance. It’s a scenic landscape, for sure, but what catches my attention is the huge temple right behind Caleb and Grandpa.
    The temple is intricate and seems completely out of place here, in the middle of the United States. The architecture is definitely Asian-inspired. I’m no expert on the subject, so I can’t say whether the style is Tibetan, Chinese, or Japanese, but I can say with certainty that it isn’t American. Fear forms in the back of my mind. Could Caleb have knocked me out long enough to transport me to Asia? But that makes no sense. How would he get a comatose passenger onto a plane? He wouldn’t. We drove here, so we must be somewhere in North America.
    “What is this place?” I ask, trying not to sound too impressed. “Where are we?”
    “It’s our home,” says Grandpa. “Follow me. I’ll get you some clothes.”
    We enter through the large golden gates, with Caleb trailing behind us. It seems the theme of the day is breathtaking beauty. And it’s not just the cherry blossom leaves frozen in the air or the gorgeous landscaping. It’s everything. A deep sense of serenity is woven into every strategically placed little pagoda, into the very essence of the giant rock gardens. If I weren’t convinced that I’m in the deepest trouble of my life, I’d probably relax and enjoy it all. As is, the landscape and peace of this Quiet slows my heart rate—slightly.
    I’m not surprised to see monk-like people when we enter the Temple. They have shaved heads and are wearing orange robes. Maybe they’re Buddhists? Everything points to that, though I don’t recall seeing one of those iconic, chubby statues with serene smiles and big earlobes. According to my mom Lucy, that fat guy isn’t even the original Buddha from India,