The door to Area 51 Pizza closed behind me with a thud. “Be with you in a minute,” a disembodied voice called from the the back, behind the counter — a half-wall hiding all of the kitchen but the tops of food-grade 18/8 steel shelves from view. I moved towards the humming, glass-door cooler at the far side of the room; stumbled on the leg of a folding chair, but continued undaunted. Opening the cooler and feeling a rush of frigid air wash over me, I grabbed a bottle of water and turned to the counter — dazzled for a moment by the heat-lamp that beamed down reddish light on a rotating plate of pizza slices.
“Hey, man,” a tall, friendly guy greeted me, walking out of the kitchen. “What can I get you?”
“Straw man,” I replied. Great. The patient is exhibiting paraphasia. “Just this,” I added, placing the water on the counter.
“That all? Alright, that’s 1.50.” I reached into my pocket. The leather wallet in my hand felt strange. Too thin — like there was nothing in it.
“I fell into a well,” I groaned, suddenly swaying on my feet, grabbing hold of the counter to keep from collapsing. “I mean, I don’t feel well.”
“Whoa, what’s the matter?” The chef started to move around the counter; I blacked out. When I opened my eyes again, it was about two seconds later. I was laying on the floor.
“Hang on, I’ll call an ambulance,” the chef was saying. He sounded far away, but he must not have been that far away, because I reached out and managed to grab his ankle.
“No,” I said. “I’m just dehydrated.” That was true. Sure, maybe the dehydration was playing into a more serious underlying condition in my brain — and exhaustion, malnutrition and prolonged stress — but he didn’t need to know any of that. He had opened the bottle of water and passed it to me in a second. I propped myself up with my back against the counter and nursed the drink. I started to feel better surprisingly fast — which I’m sure was partially psychosomatic. The chef was in a crouch beside me, looking concerned. A few minutes went by, in which I emptied the bottle, and politely asked if I might have another with an inarticulate grunt. The obliging guy handed it to me silently.
“Thanks,” I coughed, aspirating water in the attempt to talk. “That was all I needed. It’s been a rough few days.” The chef looked somewhat relieved, hearing me speak normally, but a vestige of his concern seemed to linger.
“It must’ve been,” he said. “Here, have a seat; do you want food?”

We sat at a small table near the windows, a glass of milk, a glass of juice, and a chicken parmesan spread in front of me. I felt normal again, and now glanced around the restaurant with a clearer head. There were alien-theme decorations everywhere, beanbag extra-terrestrials lounging on tables and shelves, sci-fi movie posters on the walls; a big glow-in-the-dark plastic flying-saucer hanging from the ceiling. The chef, who had introduced himself as Rick Boiardi, leaned back in his chair; one arm hanging down behind, the other resting on the table. He was becoming exponentially more relaxed, in proportion to the gradual diminishment of my corpselike paleness as I ate and drank.
“Thanks, Rick,” I said, reaching across the table for a fist-bump. “I owe you one. My name’s Jack, by the way; Jack Wilson.” Rick’s relaxed posture burned-up in a flare of shock and amazement.
“No way — Jack Wilson?” he said, eyes wide. “Is that what this was — you were testing me? Making sure I was one of the good guys, not some brain-washed corporate automaton?” ...Huh?
“Warren said you know how to make an entrance,” he went on. “But — I don’t know. I didn’t see this coming.” Warren. Boiardi knew Warren, and had talked about me with her. He was part of the organization. Something told me this was not the time to act completely confused, so I just grinned noncommittally and shrugged. There’s an ancient maxim that applies to the situation I was in: When you’re in deep shit, say nothing and try to look like you know what you’re doing.
“This is amazing,” Rick said. “I can’t even believe you’re in my restaurant. We were all wondering if you would come.”
“Well, I’m here,” I said. “And fashionably early.” Rick laughed.
“Yeah, I get it, though. You had to check the place out; you can’t be too careful.” I nodded. Can’t argue with that.
“What time are the others coming, in the morning?” I asked, casually. “Melissa’s email wasn’t specific.” I decided to use her first name, because she and I went way back.
“The crew will be here at 06:00 hours,” Rick said. Oh, that helps. I started figuring out what 0600 hours converts to in regular time, and Boiardi watched me intently — probably mistaking my abstraction for absorption in profound anti-Dyer scheming.