Gavin groaned, rolling onto his back. Head throbbing, he propped himself up on an elbow to rub his temples. What the hell…? Was he sprawled in the dirt? Something sharp and uncomfortable, like a small stone, poked into his back and he grumbled, forcing his eyes open to look around. He found himself staring straight into the very white face of a grubby, bearded man. The man slowly withdrew his hand from Gavin’s pocket and backed away to join his two companions. Gavin worked his jaw.

“Can I help you?” he managed, “Piss off.”

The man furthest back let out a strangled sound and dashed back to an honest to god horse-drawn cart. The other two shared a glance before following and thundering away. Shaking his hands to clear away bad pins and needles, Gavin cussed under his breath. The three had all been dressed like wankers; had he somehow managed to get mugged at a renaissance fair? Come to think of it, where was he? He tried to think back over the last few hours but his head felt… fuzzy. He’d been in the car with… what was her name? He must have been hit hard, how do you forget your girlfriend’s name? They’d been going… gah! Why couldn’t he remember? They hadn’t been going to a renaissance fair, anyway. Gavin appreciated nerd culture and all but tights and faux velvet seemed like a whole lot of hassle.

Forcing himself into a sitting position, he fought a wave of nausea. He was going to – nope. He swallowed a mouthful of bile. No siree, no vomiting here, everything was fine. Having mastered sitting, he decided to give standing a go. His legs were like rubber and gave way under him the moment he tried to put any weight on them. Pins and needles roared to life up to his knees and he swore, rubbing his skin and wincing. What had those idiots done to him? He patted down his pockets, to see what they’d taken and his heart sunk as he realised he had no phone or wallet. Also, and perhaps more importantly, the clothes he was wearing were not his.

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He pulled at his shirt. The first thing he noticed is that it was covered in blood, which was not good. It mustn’t have been his though, he couldn’t find any cuts. Oh well. He was pretty sure the shirt was some kind of fitted potato sack. During this inspection, he noticed his arms. Apparently, it was possible to get mugged as a skinny noodle of a bespectacled man and wake up ripped like Channing Tatum. He touched his face, feeling for glasses and wasn’t surprised to find nothing there. No problem. He was pretty sure this was a drug trip. At least, he’d never taken drugs before, so he couldn’t say for certain that this wasn’t what it was like to be on drugs. He must have taken some kind of synthetic designer bullshit.

He sat drowsily on the side of the road and barely heard the cart before it drew up alongside him. A man with salt-and pepper hair and a shirt that looked similar to Gavin’s frowned down at him.

“Gods, Petar, is that you!?”

Petar? Sure, why not. The man jumped down from his seat and hoisted Gavin to his feet.

“Lyra thought you’d be home days ago,” he said as he bundled Gavin into the back of his cart, in between a barrel and a sack of something, “I’ll take you back to your wife, poor man, don’t you worry.”

 “Uh… sure. Wife?”

The man frowned in concern.

“What happened to you?”

Gavin rested heavily against the barrel. What a truly fantastic question.