When Jon woke up, he found himself in a strange room. There were shelves full of books all around him, but they were all in old bindings. They looked new, they just looked like they'd been bound in old-fashioned ways. Nobody else was in the room with him. He looked out the window, and he could see he was high up. Counting the windows below him, he was on the sixth floor of a building.
The air was dry, and a little crisp. Not cold, but chilled, despite the fact that he couldn't see any vents that would link to an air conditioner. Did this building not have air conditioning at all?
Jon looked out the window once again to try to gain his bearings. He didn't recognize where he was at all, but there were folks lined up along the street below him. It was strange, though, all of them wore clothes in natural fibers, nothing looked polyester or nylon. No puffer jackets or windbreakers. Any coats were just wool and cotton. And some of the women were wearing pillbox hats. Had Jon traveled through time?
In the distance, Jon could see a black convertible rumbling down the street in his direction, surrounded by police on motorcycles, and his arms moved, seemingly of their own accord. When had Jon picked up this rifle? The black convertible came closer, and Jon could make out three men in black suits, and a woman in a pink outfit. Jon raised the rifle to position the sights just in front of his eyes, and he got a closer view of the car. Of the man in the rear passenger seat, next to the woman in pink.
Jon tried to put down the rifle, but he couldn't budge. His body was frozen in that position. He broke out in a cold sweat that he couldn't wipe away. The car below him drove by a grassy knoll. And Jon's finger squeezed around the trigger.
