73 He Is Arthur Logan

I hate waking up in a strange place every time I'm knocked out. I hate being in a coma when my mind goes blank. This time I didn't dream. I thought I was in a coma for a short time. But when I opened my eyes and saw the blue sky and white clouds outside the window, I felt very happy.

I'm back. I'm pretty sure this is America. I can smell the familiar smell in the air. It's the smell of home.

The room looks like a presidential suite of a hotel, with three full-length windows. I can see most of the city at a glance from any window. I looked out the window at the towering buildings, cars shuttling back and forth on the road. The people walking downstairs are as small as ants. The sunlight tinted the glass windows. I put my hand on the glass window and felt the warmth of the sun. It lifted the gloom that had enveloped me on Puddin' island.

I'm back. I'm back in Manhattan.

But I seem to be a prisoner again. I found myself alone in a huge room. There's only one person who can keep me here,