The Logbook of Schrödinger's Cat

That was the only thought that surfaced in my mind as I lay by the roadside, a light breeze brushing against my skin. Who said those words? And when? It feels like it was at a funeral. But how could the image of a maroon funeral wreath with ribbons help me now?

No — the wreath isn’t a memory. It’s here, in my present, lying on the tarmac. Nearby, a bicycle wheel spins idly. A pair of legs sticks out from beneath a black hearse, which has toppled onto its side and is still smoking. Petrol leaks from it, trickling towards me in a narrow stream.

At the edge of my vision, people are running about, shouting — no, shrieking. And I have no idea what I’m doing here. I can’t even remember who I am.