CHAPTER 7WHEN I CAME TO, I was lying in a bed, under a clean white sheet. There was a tube taped to my left arm, connected to a drip-feed bag hanging on a stand. There were thick curtains and the room was dark except for a lamp aimed at my head and shoulders. A woman in a white coat sat on a chair holding my wrist, a doctor, it would seem, taking my pulse. My body ached, every inch of it, every joint and every muscle.
The woman spoke in Asante.
“He’s conscious,” I guess she said.
I closed my eyes and tried to think but I must have been sedated.
All I wanted to do was hide myself in sleep.
When I woke again, there was a man sitting there. I couldn’t make out his face in the dark and I didn’t recognize his voice.
“Captain Crash Ferguson,” he said in English, “you are under arrest.”
He
