“He's lying on a narrow bed in a cramped, dimly lit room. Beside the bed is a nightstand, its chipped paint matching the scarred finish of the single wooden chair. A heavy-mesh screen, bolted into the pocked cinderblock wall, obstructs both the view and light from a tiny window. Walls, chair, nightstand, bed, everything is gray—a dull, dismal gray. Weston feels a surge of fear. A cell? No, he tells himself, it can't be a cell, the room smells too clean; and besides, the door is wide open. Frowni...ng, he sorts through his memory, trying to fit together the vague fragments of the previous night: a long ride…being wheeled to this room…a glass of water and a capsule…a gray capsule. It occurs to Weston that he might be in a hospital. Maybe…but the room seems a bit dreary and rundown, even for a private hospital. Still puzzled, he tries to rub his nose; suddenly, he remembers that he has no control over his hand, or arm…or any of his limbs. He takes a check: he can still move his eyes; and, though he can swallow, he's unable to make a sound, not even a cough.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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