The Plan

John Koger was flying. At least it seemed like he was. Even though he was not in a plane or helicopter, he was experiencing all the sensations of flight. His body seemed weightless, suspended in air without the use of ropes or wires. He wasn’t touching anything with any part of his body. His senses told him things were moving around him, but he wasn’t sure if they were moving or he was. Then he saw the carpet. It was one of those old ones from the twenties or thirties; the kind made of wool, with flowers in the pattern that didn’t seem to have any particular order about them. This one was predominately brown, probably more from dirt than from the original color. He could see it more clearly now and knew it was moving toward him. Or maybe he was moving toward it. He didn’t know which was right. One thing he was sure about, whichever one was moving it was doing so very slowly. The carpet appeared closer now. He knew it made no sense for the carpet to be moving toward him; therefore, that meant he must be moving toward the carpet. He was closing on it more rapidly now, and felt that he should put out a hand to ease the inevitable contact. But he couldn’t. In fact, as far as he could tell, he had no control over his body, no real sense that he even had a body. He was a pair of eyes, about to come in contact with an eighty-year-old rug. Oh, man, he thought to himself. This is not going to be good. A moment later, Koger knew he was more than just a pair of eyes. The first thing to hit the carpet was his forehead, followed in rapid succession by his nose and mouth. Then the eyes, which had so clearly seen the pattern in the rug, closed, and John Koger quietly, and mercifully, slipped into unconsciousness.