22. New Digs

The sneaker guys came in in the morning a few days later, not too early, and didn’t cuff him. Mateo was shocked and curious but not about to screw it up by asking questions. They still hung onto him, which was ok, since they apparently still weren’t letting him see the place and he didn’t want to plow into a wall. Maybe they believed him, or were willing to think about it?

They’d sure asked a lot about his life back home across the past few days. They’d been nicer about it, with more food breaks and a chair if he wanted it and a solid night off each day, but they’d spent a ton of time. He must have told them everything about how he did n— in 2005, down to the color of his socks. They’d thought the Minnesota Vikings logo on the t-shirt he’d been found in was pretty funny, like it was a relief too. Like, what the heck did they think it meant if it wasn’t just a logo? He was some kind of real future Viking raider or some BS?

Either way, the whole vibe was different, like he was a witness to a crime instead of a suspect. Maybe they believed him, or wanted to come across like they did. They’d instructed him to think and see if he could remember anything that was about to happen that hadn’t actually happened yet — from a song to a movie to something more military — and he promised he’d try. He was worried, though. Trying, he’d blanked on literally anything that happened in 1940, let alone nailing it down to late freaking October. They needed a history freak, not him! And he had a feeling he was on borrowed time with them until he came up with something.

The sneaker guys stopped, and he heard a door opening. Where he ended up this time was new. He looked quizzically at the sneaker guys when the bag came off his head.

“What’s, uh, this?”

One of them grinned. They seemed friendlier with him too, and coming from grunts he was willing to bet it was really real.

“Your new cell, mate.”

“Doesn’t look like a cell.”

“Well, it’s got a lock,” he said almost apologetically.

It also had a real bed and a desk with a chair and a (barred) window and — holy cow — a real bathroom. And his stuff — not the stuff from his pockets except for the shark tooth, the comb, and pen — but those plus the clothes he’d arrived in were there on the bed.

“Wow, guys, what the heck—“

“Orders, mate.” But he seemed friendlier than someone having to suck up to an enemy spy. “Since you’re on our side the bigwigs decided we could at least let you wear your uniform. Can’t give you your boots back while you’re here, sorry. Tineye won’t have it.”

“T—the monocle guy?”

“Yeah, but you didn’t hear we call him that from me, mate.”

“Makes sense,” Mateo admitted. “Steel-toed and everything.” You could kick a sneaker guy a lot harder than he could kick you. It’d be dumb — his buddies would kill you — but you could do it if you were crazy enough.

“Nah, mate. Boots are too loud. Tineye likes the place quiet. Gives the spies time to think, you see?” He stuck out his own sneakered foot. “I bet you never heard a sound from outside your cell.”

“Huh. I gotta admit I was wondering about that—“

“Any road, in you get. Even if you are some kind of American air force chap they say you have to be locked up for security until they can check your stuff.”

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