His friends called him Brit, the name had stuck with him since childhood. He’d come from the U.K., so the other kids took to calling him British. At first they used it as if he were some peculiar thing, “It’s the British boy. So you’re the British kid?  Hey British…” and that kind of thing. It quickly became a nickname his friends were all too eager to adopt, and in short order became abbreviated to just Brit. Since he was quite young when he came to the states, he eventually lost all trace of a natural accent, but sometimes put one on when he approached the ladies. Otherwise the name was somewhat out of place, because his real name was Marcus Antwan Jacobs, and he was what Americans might call mulatto. Most people didn’t imagine British people as being black at that time.

His father was an African American, who had been stationed overseas when his parents met for the first time. His father, Alexander Hollan Jacobs, was a connoisseur of the Motown sound. He’d heard that you could find lots of old American music in record stores around the U.K. but he’d had a difficult time of it up until that point. The day he met the woman who would become Brit’s mother he was near giving up. She worked at a record store someone had recommended to him, and was very helpful. They hit it off almost immediately, and she promised to help him search for the records he wanted. She had a similar collection, and they soon found themselves meeting outside of the record store when he’d come in to town. At first it was to compare collections and listen to music together, but soon it turned into something else. After she got pregnant they married, almost immediately, just in case something happened to him. When his father’s tour ended he’d lived with them in the U.K. for a time, long enough to have a second child on the way. At which time he’d decided to move the four of them back to the states. His sister would be born in America.

Brit’s sister would go on to have a professional music career, as a blues singer. Brit worked security for her, and acted as her driver. One day they were on their way to the studio when Brit found himself in the middle of a massive traffic accident. Someone in a sports car was weaving through traffic trying to get ahead of a semi truck. However, as the driver changed lanes he’d squeezed between the truck and someone trying to make their way over to the exit lane from the opposites side. This caused the truck driver to crush the brakes as he saw the top of the sports car suddenly appear in front of him. Before anyone knew what was going on the truck had jackknifed and was careening towards the concrete embankment. Unfortunately, Brit had been in its path, and was unable to avoid the impact. Their car had been crushed, his sister sustaining massive injuries, while Brit managed to escape uninjured.

He’d been released from the hospital more than two weeks ago, but he had been there everyday checking on his sister’s condition. The doctors had said that she probably wouldn’t ever be able to speak again. She required assistance breathing, and was slipping in and out of consciousness due to the painkillers. After she’d been informed of her diagnosis, she took a turn for the worse. She had to be sedated, and restrained, to keep her from ripping out her respirator. Brit remained by her side as much as he was allowed, wishing everyday he could take away her pain, give her back her voice. There was nothing to say, no words to exchange between them. When they finally brought her to, her remaining lung then strong enough to breath on its own, something miraculous happened. She’d spoken his name, “Marcus…” She was the only one other than his parents who ever spoke his given name.

Brit could only bring himself to whisper, “I’m here,” he couldn’t find the strength to speak… exhausted, relieved, hopeful, he signaled the doctors and choke out the words, “She spoke to me.” The doctors said it was a miracle that she could speak at all, but it didn’t mean she would ever regain the ability to sing. Still, for Brit and his sister there was hope. However, there was something else, something had happened to Brit’s voice, and the doctors had no idea what it was. Brit could barely raise his voice above a whisper. They kept him for about a week before he was discharged, in that time he was given a psychological evaluation. The theory was that the problem was self-imposed, due to a form of survivor’s guilt, and not a medical one.

The month’s passed, and Brit came to accept his condition. Then one day he saw a child wander into the street. The child was searching for something he had dropped, and Brit could tell the oncoming driver did not see the small form. Brit did not have the voice to yell, so instead he rushed out into the street to push the child out of the way. Brit spared the child the worse of two collisions and then found himself rolling and bouncing down the street, maybe ten meters out. But he seemed to be uninjured. He began to wonder if he was perhaps impervious to physical harm, yet he believed he’d somehow been able to restore some portion of his sister’s voice in exchange for his own. There was a certain irony in this power he appeared to possess. He’d explained the circumstances of the incident to the police, after the paramedics had cleared him for injuries, and then he went home. He checked his mail but the box was empty, save for a single somewhat mysterious card. Brit put the card in his shirt pocket and headed inside, only this was not the inside of his house, it was a strange hallway. Brit started to wonder if he had been dreaming this whole time, though it didn’t seem like a dream until now. But what else could explain it, he thought, as he walked down towards the large room at the end of the hall.