3
He opened his eyes.
White.
Lots and lots of white.
It started at George’s shoulder. Blinking hard to bring it into focus, he managed to follow the line of it all of the way to his fingertips. Those stuck out the end of the fiberglass cast that dangled from a sling above him.
Would they wiggle?
Did he want to know if they didn’t?
Taking a deep breath, he tried. They did. Everything from shoulder to wrist was a land of numb, but he could wiggle his fingers and feel the round edges of the cast. Victory!
Everything else was white as well. The ceiling, the walls, the sheets.
Hospital white.
Uh-oh.
So not a good sign. (Nailed the idiom, some thought reported through the fog that seemed to wrap around him. Or should it have been: So not a good sign? With an elongated ‘o’? Whatever. O
