First Paragraph

Hague was just there, or barely. The packed dirt was damp in the shade of the tires. It was soaking through his jeans then underwear. The field was baked and flat. It ended way out there somewhere. The cone or whatever he was in was cool considering. He heard a train in the distance. He closed his eyes. He pictured it. It was a mirage. So was everything else. It disappeared when he shook his head. His headache didn’t. He opened his eyes. It didn’t matter. The opening over his head was blue. It moved way too slow for him to be able to handle so he dug at the dirt at his knees with this stone. He didn’t notice he was holding it until he did. The smooth point dented the ground. The stone was slimy. It slipped from his hand. He pressed it against his forehead. The dirt and crap stuck underneath his fingernails was what he felt. He punched at something, everything. His fist hit the wall of the stack of tires he was in. They were strapped together by bolts. The whole thing rang. It gave way to silence. A cloud gave way to the sun. His knuckle was cut. It’d scab if he left it alone. He licked at it. His tongue was numb, his ears were ringing. The air smelled like wood. He pulled himself up. The schoolyard was a playground The swings didn’t move. It was because it was empty. The tan building was built from pale bricks. The air smelled like a storm, then it smelled like tar. He was in the middle of the parking lot. He walked towards some cars. They were parked. It was just the direction he was walking in. When he leaned forward he spun. Orange juice and bread came out of his mouth. These kids in the tennis court were riding their bikes. They kept. Hague’s mouth tasted horrible. He pulled something in his throat. A boy on a biked laughed and shouted. Hague’s teeth ached. He looked up. One of the kids landed a trick all blearily. He closed his eyes and started walking. Home. He thought maybe he could make it, or not really