Something was poking my neck.

I shifted my head to get rid of the abhorrent sensation. The attempt was futile.

I rolled my head to the left then to the right. The sharp object was digging into my skin now.

I opened my right eye and the room slowly came into focus. It took me a second to adjust to the natural light pouring in from the window.

I shifted my vision to the white book laying next to me—or rather under my neck. I raised my arm and removed the culprit of my discomfort.

I stared at the white book in my hands. I held it over my face, my arms stretched out all the way.

It was a sketchbook of some sort. I opened it and flipped to the first page. Nothing.

I flipped through the rest of the blank pages until I arrived at the end of the book. I furrowed my eyebrows at the numbers scrawled in blue ink.

They looked like coordinates of some sort. I lowered the sketchbook closer to my face. I couldn’t tell if one of those numbers was a five or a six.

“Weird” I muttered.

I flinched at the sound of my own voice. I was so distracted by the notebook that I realized how quiet it was in my room.

Normally my mom had the blender on full throttle downstairs while my dad’s 15 year old coffee maker sputtered it’s last breath—or so you would think.

Everything was too quiet and that was a problem. I lifte my head and looked around. All of the Nirvana posters on my wall were gone.

My desk and the half-empty water bottles on it were nowhere in sight and alarmingly there were no clothes on the floor.

Instead, there was an empty laundry basket in the corner of the room.

I sure as hell did not own a laundry basket.

I shot up and scrambled to my feet. My navy blue sheets were replaced by ivory ones and there were about seven or twenty decorative pillows at the foot of the bed.

This was not my room. This was not my house.

I held my breath and I quietly tip toed to the door. I turned the doorknob and peeked into the hallway. The hall was ivory too and it was hauntingly bare.

My heartbeat picked up. My breathing turned into shallow panting and I instantly recognized the symptoms as initial signs of a panic attack.

‘The book’.

I quietly closed the door and made my way back to the bed. This was the only evidence I had. I grabbed the sketchbook from the bed and opened it. My hands were shaking.

I skipped to the last page and memorized the digits.

23.4162° N, 25.6628° E

“What the hell does this mean?” I whispered. I wished I paid more attention in geography class.

I tucked the book under my left arm and walked to the window. I pulled the string and raised the blinds.

“Well no matter what’s going on I’m going to get outta here”

As soon as the outside came into view, a lump of bile rose in my throat.

I was in the middle of nowhere. The desert when on for miles without anything in sight. With shaking hands I unlocked the window and pushed it up.

The heat burst through and choked me. My lips cracked and my fingertips burned.

Am I in hell?

Closed the window and locked it again. There was no way I was going to survive out there. Not on adrenaline, high hopes, and a sketchbook.

That was a death sentence. I needed a plan.

I sat down in front of the window and placed the sketchbook on the floor next to me. I leaned my head against the wall. I must be dreaming.

I rolled my head to the right at looked at the bed. My eyes glanced to the bottom of the bed and I saw what looked like a black bag poking out from underneath.

It looked a lot like my school book bag. My eyes widened and before I knew it I scrambled to the bed and pulled the backpack out.

I frantically searched each pocket. No phone.

But there was a blue book titled ‘Sahara’. I opened it and skimmed each paragraph. My eyes landed on a familiar set of numbers.

23.4162° N, 25.6628° E

Realization set in.

Was I in…..Africa?