He knew something was odd when his pants wouldn't go on right.

The thin, shabby man stooped in front of his small mirror, struggling to put his legs through the sleeves of the pants. They stubbornly went on sideways and backwards, even – impossibly – inside out. In frustration, he stood with his pants around his ankles and boxers on backwards, and frowned. He frowned at the tension in the air, at the pants around his feet, and at the size of the mirror, which was certainly causing the problems.

He found that this was an incorrect assumption as, ten minutes later and with none of his clothes on right, he tried to lock his front door.

From where he stood on the step he had a perfectly unobstructed view of the keyhole. He held the key in a steady hand, and he knew the lock was well oiled. And yet, in the rare instance that the key slid into the lock, it just wouldn't turn.

He had no patience for fiddly locks. Now having been unable to correctly dress himself, or lock his door properly, he turned his back on his house and peered down the street.

Jarred Umber was not a very happy man. He spent more of his life with a deep frown on his face and a grumble in his voice. He rarely laughed, or felt surprised. Instead, he grunted, and felt wry. When he began to feel wry, he started to become cynical, and after the cynicism had reached a maximum, pessimism settled in. To say the least, he did not enjoy surprise birthday parties.

Jarred began to feel wry as he looked down his street. The first thing he noticed was that there was barely anyone outside. The few people that were out and about seemed to be having severe trouble with the simplest of things. One man struggled valiantly, but vainly, with his shoelaces. A rather podgy woman couldn't seem to unlatch her front gate. A thinner woman had a large amount of difficulty filling up her watering can.

Jarred felt wry, but at least not as stupid as he had felt a moment before.

Nothing much else to do but go to work.

He approached his car with keys in hand, but, on a second though, thought it would be best to walk. He set off, limping slightly because his shoes were on all wrong.

Half an hour later he stood outside the doors to his office, where he was one of five managers who oversaw a large call centre. It was a fairly easy job, because all he had to do was fire people, and the other four managers too the responsibility of filling all the empty spots in the payroll.

It was an easy job, but today he wasn't sure if he would get to it.

Jarred stood glaring defiantly at the simple door before him. His face was blossoming a spectacular bruise, the colour of a ripe plum, and his shins throbbed distantly. He had had some trouble keeping to the centre of the sidewalk.

He supposed he was lucky; the few cars that were on the roads careened uncontrollably over the sidewalks and medians. He felt slightly better for choosing to walk.

The door stared innocently at him.

He glared furiously back.

The standoff came to a halt when the door suddenly flung open, knocking against Jarred's unprotected toe. (For his shoes were disastrously mal-fitted this morning)

He let loose a startled squawk, and then squinted up at manager number two, who was having trouble keeping the door open.

"Hurry, come in, before the door slips," he panted.

Jarred made it inside the door on his second try, and the simple barrier closed softly behind him.

The call centre was in horrible disarray. The lights blinked on and off as a janitor tried his best to flick all the switches to the "on" position. The few employees who had made to work that morning were grappling hopelessly with headsets and computers. Chairs rolled across the floor, and more than one person was sprawled on the floor.

"The hell is wrong with the world today?"

Jarred's question remained unanswered. He chose, instead, to look at the coffee machine. Some poor soul had attempted to get a cup of coffee earlier, and the results were puddled on the floor.

He began to feel cynicism creeping up.

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The citizens of America didn't get any television at all the following three days. The radios had a slight bit more luck, but the quality was poor, and you couldn't tell what the announcers were saying half the time, anyway. Finally, though it took some effort, Millions of single-sided pamphlets were released to the general public. The pamphlets promised that a full journal would follow, but the citizens found the idea of trying to turn the pages of a newspaper somewhat amusing.

Least amused of all was jarred.

The pamphlet was a gaudy pink colour – he had heard that the several hundred foreign printing companies had run out of plain paper three-quarters of the way though. He stared grimly at the piece of paper laying on the floor, and tried to read it.

Do Not Panic!

It exclaimed in size forty-eight, bolded font. Jarred grimaced wryly to himself.

That was very helpful, do not panic. Their world – well, he supposed, their Country, had been turned upside-down and backward, and the only advice anyone could offer was, Do Not Panic. With an exclamation point, at that. How immature exclamation points were.

The rest of the text was somewhat smaller, so Jarred had to attempt to crouch down in order to read it. He tumbled awkwardly onto his side and grunted as his face landed a few inches from the paper. His eyes almost went crossed in his attempt to read the text, but he found he was just able to see it.

He read on, and discovered that the world's scientists still didn't know anything, other than that a beam of some unknown energy was recorded to have hit the entirety of the United States of America (and nothing else). It seemed to be affecting only the motor skills of humans. Jarred was rather upset to find that they had given the effect a name: Mechanical Dyslexia. He sighed pessimistically to himself.

He didn't need to read the pamphlet to know that a cure would be a long way off, and a reason even further. It took simple knowledge of the scientific capabilities of the world to know that the best they could do would be to name it and wonder.

Jared decided, over a large glass of stiff brandy, that he would have to find his own cure. The alcohol probably had nothing to do with this decision, because most of it has slopped down the front (technically the back) of his shirt. The shattered glass lay under his chair, silently seeping brandy onto the floor. He stared pessimistically at a road map, and then at his hands.

Outside his home, the great country of America came to a deadly standstill.

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