When I come to I'm in thick brush, lying there on the damp ground like some log. I can't see a thing, it's so dark.
My head propped up by prickly brambles, I take a deep breath and smell plants, and dirt, and, mixed in, a faint whiff of dog crap. I can see the night sky through the tree branches. There's no moon or stars, but the sky is strangely bright. The clouds act as a screen, reflecting all the light from below. An ambulance wails off in the distance, grows closer, then fades away. By listening closely, I can barely catch the rumble of tires from traffic. I figure I must be in some corner of the city.
I try to pull myself together and pick up the scattered jigsaw puzzle pieces of me lying all around. This is a first, I think. Or is it? I had this feeling somewhere before. But when? I search my memory, but that fragile thread snaps. I close my eyes and let time pass by.
With a jolt of panic I remember my backpack. Where could I have left it? No way can I lose it––everything I own's inside. But how am I going to find it in the dark? I try to get to my feet, but my fingers have lost all their strength. (Kafka on the Shore, tr. by Philip Gabriel)
If the sentence were ‘this is the first’, I would not have raised my question. What does a first mean?
