Twelve-Anne took a deep breath. The air tasted slightly different than the last breath she’d taken; less nitrogen-y, somehow. When she stopped to think about it, she couldn’t detect a terrible amount argon, carbon dioxide, neon, methane, helium, krypton, or xenon, either. The breath seemed to contain primarily hydrogen and oxygen. Peroxide? No, her lung infection didn’t seem to be improving at all. Ah, yes; water! This idea was supported by that her previous breath was taken in a space shuttle approaching the Atlantic Ocean.
She felt a tug at her wrist, which was promptly followed by the saving of her life as she was pulled up onto one of the larger pieces of the wreckage.
“Oh, hello Dawson Filter,” she said, brushing an ocean off of her blouse, “you have just saved my life.”
“That is accurate.” Dawson noted. He tossed a paddle-lengthed strip of metal in her hand’s direction. “We’re in the Gulf Stream now, so we’ll need to paddle like highly motivated ants to avoid Europe. Fortunately, however, I phrased the clause including work (namely the one about paddling) in the future tense; so we should have plenty of time before we need to start doing things.”
Out from his pocket Dawson pulled an object, with which he did a thing with for a length of time. (And no, Joanna, this story is not addressed to you, so our contest to see who can go the longest without saying the word “time” stands to one another stands. And even though the previous sentence had your name at the beginning, it doesn’t count either, because it is in brackets.) Twelve-Anne moved her eyepatch over her good eye so that she could rest undisturbed by the shiny pest we all call grit our teeth and call “the Sun”, and the Quest Committee’s raft drifted Northeast, carrying with it your emotional investments.
. . .
A man was named Hank, just like he was every afternoon; but on this particular day, he was flying a helicopter. It was sort of a job he had. He would fly defective lamp posts from Great Britain to the United Stated in a helicopter to deliver them to an Ohio exhibition dedicated to demonstrating that all British technology is defective, and America ought not trust the island on any matters ever until the end of time. The helicopter would generally run out of fuel and crash; and the exhibition would note that the helicopters were British-made. The reports Hank filed said the helicopters crashed, at least.
Hank looked through his window to see two human-shaped people sailing on a subpar raft. He took a sip from his glass of earthenware, and prepared to land on not-land.
Dawson looked upward, and, seeing that there was a helicopter in the direction he was looking, continued looking upward until he was able to look forward and still keep the machine in his line of sight. He nudged Twelve-Anne awake, and they agreed to accept Hank’s offer of “Get in the helicopter or see Europe; and I’ve gotten, like, thirty pamphlets from my boss in here why you should pick the former.”
“Where shall you take us?” Twelve-Anne asked, “Additionally, who are you? And hello.”
“Hi; I’m Hank; and I’ll probably wind up taking you wherever you like. Or better.”
“Manhattan would be peachy, if it wouldn’t be too troubling.”
“That sounds like a wonderful place to start over again.” Hank took hold of the copter’s controls, and did the sorts of things that make helicopters go to Manhattan. After an hour and four minutes of flight, the machine landed on a platform; and as the craft landed, so too landed the line representing the level of the opposite of the Quest Committee’s spirits on the y-axis when such levels were graphed.
This is to say that the Quest Committee’s spirits were high.