10
I drift in and out of consciousness for three days before finally opening my eyes and keeping them open. Dingy hospital gray walls. A series of monitors. The smell of antiseptic isn’t so much evidence of cleanliness as a haphazard attempt to eradicate the stench of decay. On the wall, there’s a poster. Jefferson Memorial Hospital, it says, Honesty is the first chapter in the book of wisdom.
I attempt to move my head, only it won’t budge. So, I shift my eyes sideways and catch sight of a metal brace in my peripheral vision. When I open my mouth to call for assistance, a shockwave of pain erupts in my extremities and all that emerges is a scream.
A nurse hurries in, presses something I can’t see (a button, maybe, or a lever), adjusts something else. The pain begins to subside.
“Morphi
