Banjo tasted skin. Not his own skin. Soft, though. Warm. Urgent.
“What in Gabriel’s Moon…” thought Banjo, hazily. He inhaled. The wind forced into his chest roused him gently. Drearily, Mannah filled his vision. He jolted upright. Dust clinging, obsessively, to the back of his old T-shirt. “What happened?”
“You blacked out. You stopped breathing…” Mannah stared like he could meet the sun’s gaze.
“Blacked out…?” Banjo, now aware of his surroundings, searched for his guitar.
“It’s in the spirit world.” Mannah stated knowingly.
“Mannah, what the hell are you babblin’ about now? Where’s the guitar?” impatience strengthening his limbs.
“I just toldja.”
“You’re makin’ about as much sense as a Christian revival. Speak plain just this once.” No longer grounded, Banjo stared down at Mannah. Still half-clothed. No shoes. No dust, except on his fingers from drawing in the dirt as Banjo revived.
“The guitar. It ain’t here no more.” Mannah kept a steady gaze on Banjo. As if he were conversing with a water moccasin during mating season. “How’d you do it, Banjh? I saw it but I didn’t see how you did it. You do it different from me.”
“You sure I blacked out? I think maybe you hit your head and I’m trapped in your hallucinations. I don’t have the cleanliest idea what you’re talkin’ about. I just need that guitar. I gotta return it. Ain’t nothin’ supernatural ’bout getting cussed out.”