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Turner woke up from the coma a week later. He was lying on a hospital bed, alone in a four-bed room. The pale-yellow walls and the huge windows made the space feel cosy and welcoming. His first memory was of the face of Lilian. A beautiful memory.
Turner tried to figure out what he was doing there and what had happened to him, but he couldn’t piece together the fragments of his memories. He remembered Lilian, and he had a vague recollection of the fire and his heart attack, but after that it was a complete blur. Everything washed away like paint on wet canvas.
At first attempt, he couldn’t sit up, so he glanced around the room from the bed. Everything seemed unreal, as if he were on a set. His right arm was bandaged, and he had the feeling that his left palm belonged to someone else.
