A shower appeared in my bedroom thirty seconds ago.
No, not a shower. A tube of some sort, fogged glass. The door opens, steam pours out. Okay, maybe it is a shower. A man with neat hair and an old face steps out. He frowns.
“You’re not Martin,” he says, then scowls, “crap.” He turns and looks at the shower, then back at me.
“Where the hell am I?”
I reach down and grab the neck on an empty bottle of beer beside my bed. I keep it at my side.
“My bedroom,” I say.
He glances around the room, unimpressed. “I see,” he mutters. Then, looks back at me, “but in a bigger sense, what city, what country?” He looks out my window.
“Somewhere in Europe?”
He frowns at me.
“But, you’re American?”
“What the hell are you doing in Russia?”
I shrug, “I like it…
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