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"Phone. I need my phone."

I rush back into the bedroom, surprised it's taken me this long. Most days I wake up already reaching for my cell.

Nothing sits on either of the nightstands. I frantically search the floor surrounding the bed, under the pillows, in the crack between the mattress and the headboard.

Nothing.

There isn't even a charger plugged into the wall, waiting patiently for its companion.

I dash back into the kitchen. Surely a place like this has a landline. This kitchen screams for a yellow phone attached to the wall, the kind with the long curly cord and the spinner thing instead of buttons.

But there's no phone there either.

No brick-sized cordless phone rests in a station in the living room. Another cursory search reveals no home computer. No laptop. The only piece of technology seems to be the large flat-screen TV, evidence I haven't gone back in time to the dark ages. I quickly find the remote and turn it on, desperate for some kind of connection with the outside world. But no Netflix or Hulu icon appears. There's no guide directing me to more than a thousand different channel options. There's one channel, playing a movie with a dog and a preacher and a woman in a knee-length swirl of a skirt.

I shove my feet into a pair of fluffy bunny slippers and race to the front door. The outside of my prison is just as prettily pristine as the inside, a green lawn that must take buckets of water to keep alive and flower beds filled with blooms that are actually blooming—something I would never be able to manage in real life.

I turn my head first to the right, then to the left, only to find rows of matching houses on either side, as far as the eye can see.

Pushing open the white picket gate—of course there's a white picket fence—I cross the street, heading toward what looks like signs of civilization. A block away is a street lined with shops best described as "intentionally charming." Striped awnings and hand-lettered signs and café patios with tiny tables and matching chairs and umbrellas.

I stop the first person I see, a woman in her midthirties with the same cheerleader curls I now have hanging down my back—someone should tell her she is too old to pull off that hair, but then again, so am I. "Hi, yes, excuse me. Who is in charge here, please?" I don't normally go full "Karen let me speak to the manager" the moment I encounter a problem, but desperate times and all that jazz.

"Well, hi there!" The woman beams, her voice lilting with the barest hint of a Southern accent. "You must be new in town! Welcome to Heart Springs!"

My mind quickly scans a mental Google map, but I know well enough to know I've never heard of any place with such a ridiculous name. "Heart Springs? Is that upstate?"

"Upstate?" Her laugh tinkles pleasantly. "That's too funny!"

"Is it?" Although this whole thing certainly does feel like a sick joke. "I'm sorry, it is very nice to meet you or whatever, but I really do need to speak with whoever is in charge."

"You mean the mayor?"

"Sure. Yes. The mayor. Where can I find them?"

"She works in the coffee shop, right over there." The woman points to the nearest building.

Without stopping to question why the mayor works in the coffee shop, I about-face and rush to the door.

"So nice to meet you!" the woman calls from behind me. "Hope you enjoy your stay!"

Not likely, I think, but don't bother to say. I wave over my shoulder as I push open the door of the shop, a tinkling bell accompanying my entrance. A flyer for an annual Apricot Faire is posted in the window. Just the thought makes my stomach turn, but I push on, needing answers more than I need a dirty martini after a sixteen-hour workday.

The smell inside the cozy café instantly reminds me that I haven't yet inhaled my standard double espresso. Maybe the lack of caffeine is responsible for the complete collapse of my brain?

An older white woman zips back and forth behind the counter, humming merrily while she preps for the day.

I wait a whole five seconds for her to notice me. When she doesn't, I march right up to the counter. "Excuse me?" I keep my voice as measured and polite as possible given the circumstances. So, you know, not very.

The woman startles, her gray cloud of hair bobbing as she jumps. "Oh my! I'm so sorry, I didn't see you there."

I manage to lift one corner of my lips in a tight smile. "No problem. I need a double shot of espresso and some information."

She putters around behind the counter, bringing a pair of reading glasses from the top of her head to her eyes. "A double shot of espresso? Wouldn't you rather have a vanilla latte or a caramel macchiato? Our special drink of the month is a lavender honey latte and we have pumpkin spice all year round!"

"God no." My eyes narrow on her as she starts fiddling with the espresso machine, my faith in her abilities to pull me the burst of caffeine I need dwindling. "How about that information while you're working on that?"

She laughs and it tinkles just like the door chime. I find both sounds equally irritating. "I'm not sure what kind of information I can provide, but fire away."

"First question is an easy one. Where the hell am I?" I lean both hands on the counter, tempted to vault over the stupidly pink thing and make my own damn espresso.

The woman pulls a tiny mug down from a shelf. "Well, I don't think there's any need for that kind of language."

I wait for her to answer my question, but apparently my use of the word hell has rendered her speechless. I sigh, my thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of my nose. "So sorry. Could you tell me where I am? Please."