I see that my trombone is on the table near him.
"Why no, I do not mind telling you," I say, "though you might find it hard to believe what I have gone through. But first—where am I and what month is it?"
The doctor lets go of my wrist.
"You are in New York," he says, "and it is September of the year Twenty-five O Seven."
"Just a minute," I say, "I must misunderstand you. I thought you said the year was Twenty-five O Seven."
"That is what I did say," says the doc.
"But that cannot be true," I tell him. "Why I was born in 1914 and it is not possible for me to be living at such a period in history."
He picks up my wrist again.
"You are a little excited," he says, "and I think you had better get a bit more rest. Then we can talk this thing over later."
I see him say something to the nurse who is standing in the doorway all this time, and she nods as he goes out. I start to call to him but I figure it is no use. So I go back to sleep.