The cold was the first thing he registered. Not the cold of winter air or the cold of rain-soaked concrete, but the cold of something deliberately chilled, something that had been designed to preserve. Metal. The surface beneath his back was smooth and unyielding, conducting the chill through the thin fabric of his shirt and into his skin. He could feel every ridge, every seam, every imperfection of the table's surface pressing against his spine.
The light was the second thing. It was harsh, overhead, a fluorescent glare that seemed to have no source, that came from everywhere at once and left no shadows to hide in. It pressed against his closed eyelids, a persistent, insistent presence that refused to be ignored. He tried to open his eyes, but the lids were heavy, weighted down by someth
