He needs a bath and a bandaid

[~Clockwork~]

Based on a repeating dream. I cut it short, but there was no resolution, anyway. I always wake up too early.


I woke up in the small room of a cabin. The wood was a dark color, and seemed to be hand built. There were two simple beds facing the door, about the right size for children. I was in the right bed, and and old friend of mine was in the left. Sitting on a stool next to me was a woman in an old fashioned style of dress, off-white.
"You're awake!" She exclaimed. "You and that boy over there were found on the side of the path. You were both unconscious, but we have no indication as to why. Me and my husband took you in to our house, at least until you woke. Might I ask who you are?"
I scanned her face for signs of some sort of trick, but it appeared she was serious. Why was I dying on the side of the road? "Clockwork," I said, "and he's Max. Where are we?"
"This is a forest a little ways away from New York."
"I don't remember coming here. When is it? What year?"
"October of 1779."
"What am I doing in a forest outside of New York in 1779?"
"I don't know." There was a pause. "Why is Max's hair blue?"
I put on a thoughtful and slightly confused expression as I glanced towards him. "I never really thought about it before. I mean, I can't really say his hair has always been blue. At first it was brown, and then for a long time it was red. One day it was just . . . Blue. Oh, and there was that one day last summer when it was green." I could have just said he painted it, a simplification for dying hair, but the expression on the woman's face made this version of the story much more fun. I found myself grateful for my acting classes.
"Where are you from?"
The crossroads. I couldn't very well say I was from the year 2017. Did they even have the concept of time travel here? I barely did myself. I had no clue why or how I was in this century. There was no planning for this, and therefore no identity I knew to take. I didn't want to lie, anyway. Would I tell the truth, or come up with a fake persona? Perhaps a partial truth would do for now. "A place to the west," I replied. "We just call it America usually, but sometimes the US. Specifically, I'm from the south, but it doesn't cut into Mexico. Not by our boarders, anyway."
"So you're an Indian?"
Ah, yes, the abundant racial sensitivity of the 18th century. "Ma'am, I've seen a lot of places, but I've never been to India. I'm an American." The edge to my voice was unintentional, but I found I didn't regret it. There was a pause as I watched her face change from growing understanding to surprise at my offense. I realized how helpful this was, though; I didn't have to lie. "But yes, I am native, and Max is from the same place as me. Not that it should matter specifically, because my tribe is completely unconnected to the ones you know."
Just then, Max woke up. He shot up quickly and silently, flicked his eyes around the room, and suddenly took on a completely horrified expression. He only used thirteen facial expressions, each having been practiced and planned many times. There was little transition between them, so the instant shift startled the woman beside me. He turned towards me, probably looking for an explanation.
"I don't know," I said, "But we're in 1779, just outside of New York."
He took on his confused face. "Shamalamadingdong," he said with finger guns. He said that a lot. It seemed to be his go-to phrase, like a way to say he had nothing to add to the conversation.
"You have a cut on your arm," the woman stated, directing the comment at him. So he had, but it was fairly shallow. It was already starting to scab over. Perhaps that was why he looked neutral when he heard this, with no hint of alarm.
"He needs a bath and a bandaid, and he'll be fine," I stated. "He has plenty of scars on his arms and legs. I call him Okapi sometimes." Did they know about Okapis in the 18th century? No, but it didn't matter. The point was conveyed.
Max showed excitement at the word okapi. "Yes! I like Okapis. Friends."
"Oh well," the woman sighed. "I suppose we couldn't help him anyway. No medical experience for me or my husband." I thought no medical experience would be an important factor in our survival, seeing as bloodletting was a medical practice in this time period, but I held my tongue. She left a dress on my bed and a suit on his before leaving.