I woke with no memory of how I wound up on a scratchy blue sofa with a headache and blurred vision. As I tried to focus on the shapes and colors around me, I heard laughter. It began as high-pitched and maniacal, then rolled down to a throaty rumble before fading away. 

    The mist cleared from my eyes and I saw at least a dozen Serene Sentiments figurines standing in a semicircle on a scuffed end table. All the tiny figures with their pale faces, large oval eyes, and pious expressions were facing towards me, and for a moment I wondered if they had me surrounded. 

    The laughter started again and I lifted my head, just a bit, hoping my movement would not be noticed while I assessed the situation. 

    When I saw who the laugher was, my memory slowly came back. It was the coffee guy, Lucas and I had stolen his ring. He sat in a recliner, eating cereal and watching cartoons. His hair was mussed and he now wore green track pants with an orange hoodie. What alarmed me even more than his poor fashion choices was the handgun that sat on the arm of his recliner. What had I gotten myself into? I could return the ring and maybe he would simply let me go, but that was a last resort. 

    Using his sleeve, he wiped a dribble of pink milk from his chin, then he placed his bowl on the coffee table and rested his hand on top of the gun. His eyes never left the television. Maybe I could make a run for it and find the door before he had a chance to shoot me. 

    I tensed my muscles as I psyched myself up to run through what seemed like an obstacle course of Serene Sentiments. The dopey, pasty-faced figures were everywhere: tucked into every spare space on the entertainment center, bookshelves, the coffee and end tables, and between the photos on the mantel. This was too weird for me. For all I knew he was a serial killer who was given orders to kill ne'er-do-wells by his council of collectible ceramics. I was ready to run, but I hadn't even put one foot on the ground before Lucas suddenly turned and pointed the gun at me. 

    "Don't even think about leaving," he said. "You're not going anywhere until I get that ring."

    "Look," I sat up and raised my hands as people often do when there is a gun pointed at them, "I don't know what they've told you about me, but I'm really not a horrible person, and since I do not enjoy being held at gunpoint by a deranged psychopath, you can have your stupid ring back."

     I was sure I had put the ring in my right pocket, but all I found was a gaping hole at the bottom seam and a few bits of cotton fluff. I tried the left pocket and found another gaping hole. "You're not going to believe this," I said as I poked my fingers all the way through the pockets and wiggled them.

    He stood, still pointing the gun at me. "You're right," he said. "I don't believe it. Where did you stash the ring?"

    Now that he was standing, I noticed he wore yellow knitted socks with tiny white pom poms around the ankles. The outfit, the messy hair, the dried milk on his chin, and the gun all gave the impression of a man losing his reason, but I decided to try reasoning with him anyway. 

    "Just calm down, okay? I don't know what they've told you to do to me, but you don't have to listen to them."

    "Them? Who are you talking about?"

    "You know." I nodded at the figurines on the end table. "Them."

    "You think the Serene Sentiments speak to me?"

    "I think you think they do."

    "What? Do I look crazy to you?"

    I scoffed and gestured at his ensemble. 

    "Listen lady, it's the weekend and these are my weekend clothes. They happen to be really comfortable."

    "Yeah, sure, and you can probably find a resident of the Happy Hills Psychiatric Hospital wearing the exact same outfit, minus the gun." 

    "You know, I don't think you're in any position to be insulting me."

    "Yeah? And what exactly is my position? I mean, I've been passed out on your sofa for who knows how long, and you haven't called the police. Why is that?"

    He shifted the gun into his left hand, almost dropping it, while he backed up and pulled a jacket off the coat rack. "I have my reasons, okay?" He slid his right arm into the jacket, then shifted the gun back into his right hand, almost dropping it again, as he slid the left sleeve on. "We're going out," he said.

    "What, like, on a date? I'm sorry but I don't date men who wear pom pom socks."

    "We're going outside to find my grandmother's ring."

    "Oh, are we? And how do you think you can keep me from running once we're out there? You can't march me down the street with a gun at my back. It's not exactly discreet. Furthermore," I stretched out on the sofa and put my hands behind my head, the picture of nonchalance, "we both know you're not going to shoot me - at least not on purpose, so I'm going to do exactly what I want, and what I want is to lie here on this sofa while you get me an aspirin, a cola, and a grilled cheese sandwich."

    That'll show him who's really in charge, I thought. 

    "All right," he said. "You're onto me. I'm not going to shoot you." He put the gun down and made like he was walking past me, presumably to the kitchen, but he stopped and bent forward. Before I knew it, I heard a click and found one end of a pair of handcuffs on my wrist. The other end was attached to Lucas. "But we are going out," he said.