As a Multiple Sclerosis patient, it has become necessary for me to reinvent myself. I have ... and continue to ... refuse to lie down and die, or in this case, follow the normally prescribed drugs and treatments that do nothing to defeat my disease. I am not only surviving by pursuing alternatives, I am thriving. I do the things specialists told me I would never be able to do. I walk and hope to one day even run regularly. I retain my cognitive and creative abilities for the pleasure of my readers. Although you may never see me on my daily walk, you are welcome to read my novel(s) and in doing so, come to ask yourself, "How can the 'out of the box' protocol she has followed, help my loved one with an autoimmune disease like Multiple Sclerosis?"

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 5

Chapter 5
Part A

Trish lay on her back with her knees up, ready to spring from her bedroll and scramble away or fight. Old Curly's bedroll surprised her with its functional warmth that also served well as padding under her. She opted to wrap the newest looking blanket around her, a finely woven Indian blanket of deep orangey red with a unique pattern near one end.
She stared at the night sky teaming with its abundance of stars so unlike the night sky of her home in the outskirts of Seattle. There the night sky invariably glowed with the reflection of manmade lights on the overcast sky. Oh sure, there were clear nights, but she'd stopped noticing them about the time she'd mistakenly believed her career kicked into high gear. How could she have really believed the "Old Boys" considered her as anything but a glorified office girl? They had given her the mandatory pay raise every six months with the occasional bonus of a title change. She knew betting took place on everything of public knowledge from a baby's birth date, time and weight to who was shacking up with who. Surely the office had run betting odds for if she, the oldest unofficial intern in the office would pass her exams this time just like they had the time before.
The memories made her want to climb in a hole and disappear. She chuckled mirthlessly. She had done better than that; she had slipped through the fabric of time with a device she no doubt should have used years ago. Why didn't she listen to Grammy? I listened alright. I just didn't believe her.
Had Trish listened with an open mind, she could be experiencing her umpteenth adventure rather than her first and by now she would know better than to fall victim to the likes of Old Curly.
"What's done is done," she sighed barely above a whisper. Realizing she'd verbalized her thoughts, she snapped back to her present situation.
A rather handsome stranger lay to one side of her. On the other side, and just beyond the fire, lay a dead man. She didn't know if she could trust the stranger and yet he hadn't killed her. He had actually, in a roundabout way, helped her kill the man holding her prisoner. She may have gotten away from Old Curly without this strangers help, but when and at what price? She was here alone and it had proven dangerous today. Maybe surviving seven days wasn't as easy as Grammy had made it sound. She needed to trust someone, why not him?
"Do you have a name?" she asked into the darkness.
He didn't answer right away. "Quinn. You?"
What if he asked about more than her name? She couldn't tell him she was from the twenty-first century. He'd never believe her and what if he asked where she was from? She didn't know anyone and she didn't know exactly what the year was. Her not knowing even the most common realities could easily be mistaken for amnesia. That's it!
"I -- I don't know."
"What do you mean, ya don't know? Every man has a name."
She had to think fast. A lie was easier to remember if it echoed the truth. "I just remember Curly fishing me out of the gulley. Nothing else."
He pushed himself up on one elbow, looking down at her. "Is that why Curly had you trussed up? Ya ain't lyin' to me?"
"I don't know why he had me tied up. He helped me out. I thanked him. The next thing I knew he'd lassoed me."
"He ain't your pa is he?"
Her stomach wrenched at the thought. "Heavens no. You think he'd wanna take a poke at his own daughter?"
"It'd explain a bit though. Don't 'magine his fatherin' skills'd be much better than his othern'."
"What other?" Was she really having a conversation about a dead man?

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