I still don’t know what happened. All I wanted was some paper plates and balloons. Not this. After I bought everything I needed for the party, I started out the door. Then my world faded to black. Next thing I know, I’m lying safe in my bed. (At least, I thought I was safe.)  With no memory of anything after the blackout, I wake up to the obnoxious ring of my cell phone. Who would call me this early, I thought. Whoever it is, it must be important. I answer the phone. Stupid idea. Before the word “hello” even leaves my mouth, an urgent voice comes from the receiver.

“Dennis Thatcher?” the Voice asks.

“Y-yes?” I reply.

“Come to the Bricksby Tavern if you want answers about last night. Come now, and come alone!”

The line goes dead. I try to make sense of it all, but nothing connects. The voice, though it is very distinct, is unfamiliar, and what the heck happened last night?! Why don’t I remember getting back home after my trip to the store? How did I black out? Among all these mysteries, the one thing I know for certain is that I need some sort of clarity. I  throw on some clothes and walk to the tavern, scared out of my mind for what I might experience when I walk through the doors. As soon as I set foot through the Bricksby’s oaken double doors, my eyes latch onto  a big, broad, middle-aged man in a white suit, black slacks and shoes, and, strangely, a blue fedora. The face that would become burned into my brain for the rest of my life.

“Mr. Thatcher,” he said, calm and collected.

The voice on the phone.

“My name is Jameson, and I’m from an organization called The Blue Hats. We specialize in special people, like you.”

“What are you talking about? What do you mean, like me?”

“You don’t know?” his brow furrowed, genuinely surprised at my disbelief. “You are exceptionally smart, capable of solving math problems that most university professors struggle with. You memorized all of the periodic table  at age five, and were reading War and Peace at seven. You’re a prodigy, a genius, and The Blue Hats recognize that. We can use your intelligence to help people. To stop the world’s villains before they even know what hits them.”

“O.K., so I’m smart, what does that have to do with all of this? Hold on a second, The Blue what?”

“You’ll know in due time. What you need to do now is...”

Jameson never finishes his sentence, because all I hear after that are sirens and chaos. I’m back in the store, sprawled on the floor, my head feels like it’s been bashed-in with a hammer. A nurse carts me off on a gurney while paramedics check my vital signs.

I feel helpless, grasping at words. “W-wait, wait W-what h-happened? Where’s the man? The man with the blue hat? WHERE’S JAMESON?”

The paramedic takes my hand reassuringly. “Listen, sir. I have no idea who or what Jameson is, or what you think went on tonight, but what really happened was this: you tripped on a wet floor sign and took a major blow to the head. You most likely have a concussion. Looks like you won’t be able to make that party tomorrow. Sorry, sweetheart. We’ll get you up and running as fast as we can, I promise.”

The pain holds my brain hostage, so I just stay quiet as the medics load me into the ambulance. Somehow, in the midst of my injury, I catch sight of something on the way to the hospital. Then just like that,  it disappeared. It was something so appalling, so surprising, that I’m perplexed about it to this day. Yet, it is so clear, so real, so vivid, that I’m certain it’s not a hallucination. It, or rather “he”, stood right on the street, grinning devilishly at me as I peered through the ambulance window. There he was. Jameson, the man in the blue hat.