"And you must beware… the talking box!" the old witch had warned me centuries ago. "The box that screams songs, gossip, lies, all at once! Small enough to fit in your pocket, powerful enough to rot your brain!"
At the time, I had laughed, picturing some cursed wooden chest spitting out rabid birds.
Fast forward to the 1990s. There it was, exactly as she said: a glowing rectangular box in a stranger's living room, singing, shouting, displaying moving faces in endless chaos. I flinched every time it flickered.
And then, worse, men began carrying bulky boxes in their hands. They whispered into them, waved them around, and walked like nothing had happened. Phones! She hadn't lied. Sort of. These boxes didn't sing or gossip… yet. Just talk. Small enough to fit in your pocket, powerful enough to give away your location and secrets in seconds.
I eyed one suspiciously, clutching my neck as always. "Do not trust it. Do not touch it. Do not… inhale its sorcery."
And yet… I had to admit, even I was curious.
---
The last thing I remember was the sting of icy wind against my cheeks.
The mountain stretched wide and endless, glittering white under the morning sun. My board carved fast, clean lines through the snow. I laughed, chasing the rush, chasing the speed.
Then my edge caught something. Ice. Invisible, merciless.
The board jerked. My chest pitched forward. The world spun, a blur of sky, pine, and snow, until a hard shape met my skull.
CRACK.
Light burst behind my eyes. Heat, pain, then cold. Goggles gone. Blood in my mouth. My limbs no longer mine.
Voices, distant, frantic, called my name. I tried to answer, but no sound came.
The snow was so soft, I thought. Maybe I should just… rest.
Darkness poured in, heavy and endless, swallowing sound, swallowing thought.
And then, nothing.
---
Darkness.
Heavy. Endless.
Then, light. Too much of it. Blinding.
I blinked, expecting to see snow, pine trees, my friends huddled over me. Instead, I saw a ceiling fan spinning lazily above my head. The air was hot, humid, sticky against my skin. The scent, salt, disinfectant, and something fried drifting in from outside.
Sun. Too much sun. And not just "summer backyard" sun, this was "my skin might literally melt" sun. I blinked. The last thing I remembered: snow. Thick, heavy, bone-chilling snow. Now? Bright, roasting sunlight. I must've blinked wrong. Or maybe the Earth had rotated sideways.
"Where the hell…?" I muttered, trying to lift my head. Something… solid hit the back of my skull. Not the soft, fluffy pillow kind of solid. The "welcome to the ER, idiot" kind of solid.
I bolted upright. Pain shot through my skull.
"Selamat pagi, Pak Iwan," said a voice beside me. A nurse, tan-skinned, black curly hair, wearing scrubs.
I froze. I understood him, Good morning, Mr. Iwan.
I blinked. Pak Iwan? I tilted my head, still dizzy. Good morning, Mr Iwan…? Wait, why am I Mr Iwan? I'm Ewan. Ewan MacLeod. Highlander Ewan. Not… whatever "Iwan" is.
"Excuse me?" I croaked. My voice was sandpaper. "My name's not, "
The nurse was already fussing, pressing gently at my temple. "You hit your head on the reef, Pak. Ada sedikit luka, mungkin gegar otak ringan. Pusing? Mual?"
I stared. Reef? Ocean? Where the hell was the snow? Where the hell was France?
My tongue tripped. "Reef? What reef? I, I was snowboarding!"
The nurse smiled politely, the way you smile at someone who isn't making sense. He checked my eyes with a penlight. "Snowboarding? Hmm… mungkin masih bingung, ya. That's normal. Kepala terbentur batu di pantai. You were surfing."
Surfing?!
My skin prickled. My arms were sunburnt, red and raw. Salt clung to my hair. I looked like I'd been dragged through an oven, not a snowstorm.
This wasn't the Alps. This wasn't Europe.
This wasn't even winter.
I tried to stand. Everything wobbled. I muttered, "Right… ER. Got it. Minor concussion. Sunburn. Probably fine." I wasn't worried yet about anything bigger. I was more annoyed than panicked.
I croaked, "Where… where is this?"
The nurse's smile widened. "RSUD Tepi Pantai, NTT."
"NTT… that's a country?"
Her smile widened. "No… Indonesia."
"Indonesia," he said simply.
Before I could formulate another question, the room shook. Not a polite tremble, but a full-body, "hold-on-to-the-bedframe-or-you're-going-to-fly-out-the-window" kind of shake.
I stumbled to the window, still dizzy, and froze.
Oceans of water were moving, no, rushing, into the land. Waves barreling toward the shore like someone had tipped over a giant bathtub. People outside were running, screaming, panicking. The hospital corridor became instantly crowded with staff and locals rushing in, eyes wide, faces pale.
I swallowed hard. My head still throbbed, my skin was on fire from the sun, and now… tsunamis? Really?
Okay. Minor concussion. Check. Sunburn. Check. Global catastrophe hitting hospital I barely understand. Also… check.
I muttered to myself: This is officially the weirdest morning of my life. And now I'm Mr Iwan.
---
The ground quaked again, and the hospital lights flickered. People shouted, some ran, some froze. And there I was, Mr Iwan, crispy sunburned, head throbbing, suddenly the most experienced doctor in a crowded ER.
"Follow me!" I barked, mostly to myself, mostly hoping someone would actually listen. I grabbed a tray of instruments, mostly scissors, tweezers, and a few rusty clamps, and started moving among the patients.
A young paramedic looked at me like I was insane. "Sir… you're not on duty."
"I'm on duty in every century," I muttered, pressing a bandage onto a bleeding arm with one hand while trying to keep a stack of papers from sliding off the counter with the other. "Now, who's next?"
I quickly assessed a patient with a head laceration. No fancy scanners. No fancy syringes. Just me, my hands, and a memory of decades treating war injuries with whatever was at hand. I stitched the wound efficiently, murmuring: "Clamp… check. Thread… check. Steady hands… mostly check."
Another patient moaned, clutching a broken arm. I grabbed a splint, okay, a wooden stick from the supply closet, and improvised a proper fix. "You'll survive. Probably."
Through it all, my brain kept a running commentary:
Sunburn? Ow. Headache? Ow. Minor concussion? Ow. Tsunami? Wait, did I sign up for this today? No. But hey… decades of wartime medicine never lied. Now let's improvise like a proper old-school doctor.
By the time the shaking subsided, the ER was organized chaos. People were bandaged, splinted, and triaged. Staff looked at me with wide, confused eyes.
"Sir… where did you learn that?" one paramedic whispered.
I leaned against a counter, breathing heavily, and muttered:
"Experience… old-fashioned stubbornness… and decades of pretending I knew what I was doing."
And then, quietly, to myself:
Yep. Still Mr Iwan. Still crispy. Still the weirdest morning of my life. But at least… I saved some people. Probably.
---