A woman was busy arranging a fresh batch of doughnuts with a pair of metal tongs. Everything was happening in slow motion. The sounds around him were muffled, movements blurred. He cleared his throat, and the woman turned to face him. “Can I help you?” she asked. “Uh …” he began, not quite sure how to phrase his question. “Can you tell me what day this is?” The woman’s dreary expression morphed into a puzzled look. “Saturday,” she said. Her gaze lingered on him, somehow sensing there was more. Part of Jake didn’t want to continue, but he had to know for sure. “And the date?” She tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear and folded her arms. No doubt wondering where this was heading, she raised her chin slightly. “The eighteenth.” Jake winced. He knew how ridiculous he was going to sound, but he had to proceed. “The … year?” The woman eyed Jake suspiciously as if he were a few cards shy of a full deck. Her voice dropped. Jake watched her lips moving, forming each and every number carefully, but it was as if he’d suddenly lost all hearing.
