My name is Eleanor. That much I am sure of. Whatever else I tell you from here on out are the facts as I know them, but I cannot promise, with any certainty, that I am telling the truth. It’s not that I’m lying – it’s that reality is shifting. Changing shape.
But for now, my name is Eleanor.
I live in a house I’ve never seen before, in a town that nobody can identify, with a young boy who says his name is Mr. Eli.
He is six-years-old, likes dinosaurs and aliens (“But not alien dinosaurs,” he tells me angrily, toys frozen mid-air in his white-knuckled fists. “The law forbids it.”), and has a monster under his bed he calls “Nana”. He is my son.
When I went to bed in my other life, I did not have a son.
I believe I do have family, though. Just not here… wherever “here” is. I have tried to contact them, but phone numbers are out of order; texts won’t send; e-mails come back “user unknown”; letters are returned unopened, a large red stamp across the front reading “UNAVAILABLE”.
I got through once. The man on the other end – my brother, James – said he didn’t have a sister, and hung up. I hit redial, but the phone number had been disconnected.