I got up at last and staggered around my bed in widening circles. My mind was still fuzzy, but it was clearing up fast. The cast on my right leg made walking difficult. I stretched painfully, and some of the stiffness left my body as I did so. I found a paper inside a plastic sheath hanging from the foot of my bed. Inside were a few printed facts. My name was Quentin Draith. It seemed like an odd name, but it did ring a bell. The rest of the sheet was a list of stats: blood gas numbers, dates, operations. I’d been here for ten days.
The door rattled. Some dark instinct within me caused me to release the paper in its plastic sheath and let it fall back into place. I flopped back, painfully, onto the bed. There was no time to pull up the sheets, so I didn’t bother. I did conceal the dangling IV line, however.
I didn’t move as the door swung quietly open. A figure stood there, watching. I opened one eye to a slit in the dimly lit room, and I watched her in return. The nurse had a fresh IV bag in her hand. The clear liquid inside gleamed in the light from the corridor behind her.
I had a hazy memory of someone coming in and changing that little bag of drugs now and then, whenever I showed signs of life. Perhaps this nurse was the culprit. I did my best to simulate deep sleep. I let my head loll on the pillow as convincingly as I could, even though it hurt to do so. The nurse hesitated for a long while, then finally closed the door quietly and left.
My eyes snapped open again and roved the room. For ten days they’d been drugging me, keeping me in this helpless state. How long did they plan to continue? Although I could not recall the details, I had the impression that my personal history was not one filled with happy events. I didn’t like depending on the kindness of strangers.
I stood up again and dragged my leg to the door. I leaned heavily on the door when I got there. The window had security wire embedded in it, forming a pattern of diamonds. I peered out of the small, rectangular pane of glass into the quiet corridor beyond.
I tried the handle, applying gentle pressure to make sure it opened quietly. It only went down half an inch before it stopped dead. I looked down and rattled it gently. I realized with a cold feeling that I’d been locked in. I tried the bathroom door next, but that was locked as well.
I looked around the room with wide, staring eyes. A trickle of sweat went down the back of my neck. I hobbled back to my bed, dragging a leg that remained encased in a fiberglass cast. I was already thinking of escape, but the leg cast would make such a thing difficult, if not impossible.
I was uncertain what to do next. I tried to take stock of my situation. I was being drugged on a regular basis, which could be excusable immediately after an accident, but not a week later. I was locked in my room as well. What was going on?
I searched the room. All the basics were there: TV, water bottle, bedpan—but no phone. No windows to the outside world either. Digging in the bed on a hunch, I discovered something. A photograph lay tucked under the pillow. I had a vague memory of placing it there. But why?
I took a moment to examine the image. It was old, from the days before people printed such things in their homes. A young woman and a baby were tightly framed in the shot, plus most of a man wearing a white T-shirt. I couldn’t see his face, because he apparently had taken the picture himself by extending out his arm and trying to capture the entire family. He’d missed and cut off his own head above the chin. There was little else in the photo, as the people were too close to the camera and filled the frame.
I examined the photo, flipping it over and searching for a date. There was nothing. I didn’t recognize the people, and that upset me. Was this my mother? Was I the baby? I really didn’t know. The thought was disturbing because I’d so clearly made an effort to keep possession of the picture. Some previous version of me had considered it valuable. I took it with me, determined to hold on to it. I trusted the wisdom of my past self more than anyone in this place.
A new fear filled me as I pondered my situation further. What if I had awakened like this many times, only to be drugged back into sleep and forgetfulness? I knew there were plenty of modern anesthetics used by paramedics that erased traumatic memories from victims. Was such a drug being administered in my case? If so, why?
I frowned and decided to take matters into my own hands. I recomposed myself upon the bed and waited in approximately the same position I had been when the nurse had last looked in on me.
It didn’t take long. Less than ten minutes later, she was at the door again, peering in. This time, she didn’t retreat. She stepped inside, having obviously decided to freshen my drugs whether the old bag was empty or not. She was Hispanic, about thirty years old, and good-looking. Her brunette hair was cut short, but remained feminine. Her eyes were a reddish-gold rather than brown.
As she approached, my eyes snapped open.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“Oh, hello…,” she said. “I have to adjust your medication.”
I revealed the needle and the tube connected to it. The plastic tube drooped and the needle at the tip gleamed. “You mean this?”
“You pulled it out?”
“Apparently.”
She sighed. “We’re going to have to put that back into a fresh vein now.”
“I don’t think so.”