*Time to Spare

Intro: The ultimate game of memory.

Tristan looked up at the ceiling. Today he would ask for repair manuals. Three-thousand, two hundred, and seventeen dots covered the ceiling tiles. He'd known that for three years. It had taken four years give or take a year, to make sure he had counted correctly. He used the dots to keep track of the days. Living in the insane asylum was bad enough but living the same day over made any place a nightmare. The reason he was in the asylum was because no one believed that time repeated itself. Though no one called it an asylum. It was a home for those unable to live on their own.

The first time had been when he was a small boy. He didn't know how long it had lasted, expect that during the time he learned how to speak. The second time had been in elementary. Then twice in high school. And now, when he should have been in college, even graduating with a degree in social studies. Though he was only twenty-six, he calculated he lived twice that long. This latest freeze was the longest.

The bell rang. Four seconds later the door opened and the orderly walked in. The security men remained at the door. Tristan sat up and kept his hands on his knees. Any sudden movement earned him a punishment. And sudden meant any movement that was more than a foot away from his body. It was easy to test when all of the variables remained constant from day to day. When time picked back up, he was determined to keep testing. Tristan knew that the orderly's mindset would also determine what a sudden movement constituted.

After the orderly checked Tristan over, of all days to repeat it had to be the one that included his monthly physical, Tristan was escorted to the cafeteria. The one saving grace was because it was his physical the staff always fed the patient better. Instead of cold porridge, Tristan feasted on bacon, eggs, and waffles with syrup. Next was exercise. Tristan enjoyed running and spent the regulated hour on a track. The orderlies and security guards sat in the middle of the room and watched.

Nine steps past three and a quarter miles. Fight.

Some times Tristan watched. He'd been on both sides. He'd run back to his quarters. He'd run for more security. He'd done everything he could think of. Today he continued to run laps.

After five people were hospitalized, the other patients were escorted back to their rooms. Tristan now had five hours of solitary until the lockdown was lifted. Some times he cursed the silence, but today he reveled in it. Repeating days did not help his physical physique. He always woke up in the same condition. Extra hours at the weights did nothing, but that wasn't the same for his memory. He devoured books because it was the only aspect of his life that showed any progress. Getting books meant bribing the security, but his bribe never ran out, and it always worked.

Tristan leaned against the door and knocked. Softly the progressively louder.

The door opened after the fifteenth strike.

"What?"

Tristan held up the dirty magazine he'd invested in a couple of weeks earlier. "I need new reading material."

The guard eyed the glossy pages. "What did you have in mind?"

"I was hoping for some car repair manuals. I use to be ASE certified. I just want to make sure I'm not forgetting anything." Just learning the correct terminology had taken a few tries. Even now he knew he wouldn't fool a mechanic.

The man reached for the magazine. Tristan tossed it on his bed. The guard frowned and left. Half an hour later the exchange was made. Tristan laid out on his bed and read about combustion engines. Dinner came and the reading material was swapped back. Tristan's magazine was missing a few pages.

This was the crowning moment. He was fifth from the end to get food. He walked through the line at a medium slow pace. He ordered the most disgusting looking food he could. He counted to seven and walked out, just in time for a man in a suit to plow into him.

Tristan gave mild protests, for show, as he was dragged from the room after the now stained man. The man, a Mr. Figgerty, was an investor in the home. He stripped to the waist and tossed the ruined shirt at Tristan.

"Do you know how much this cost?"

Tristan held up the fabric, inspecting it. He rattled off the answer, careful not to be too accurate on the price. Mr. Figgery raised an eyebrow.

"And if I were to say the clothing was ruined?"

The questioning continued passing through clothing, onto taxation rates, to governments, countries, travel methods, airplanes, and finally to cars.

As Tristan tried not to stumble over the information regarding how the air conditioning fluids have changed over the years, R12 and R134-A, Mr. Figgerty sat down and regarded him. Never before had the man sat in Tristan's presence.

"Do you know what the chemical compound for these are?"

"As in H20?"

"That's water, but yes."

"Nope. You've got me there." Mr. Figgerty nodded in approval. "I always trust a man who gives an honest 'I don't know.' As the Oracle once told Socrates—"

"He is wise because he knows how little he knows."

The interrogation was over. Tristan was taken back to his room and he looked up at the tiles, mentally adding a tickmark to the impenetrable walls.

At seven Tristan opened his eyes. Today he would ask for a chemistry book. The bell rang. Four seconds later the door to his room opened.