Oscar couldn’t help himself. Standing beside the bed, in his breezy hospital gown, he held a pen and stared at the medical consent.
Something must have happened, maybe the hit to the head. He needed to write about it. Before the accident, he wouldn’t waste his time with this.
Oscar flipped the form, blank side up. Pen to paper gave him a rush. All the day’s minutia flowed out. When he’d filled the page, he turned the sheet over and wrote in the margins until full.
Scanning the room, he found nothing else to write on. Some text ran across computer screens on medical equipment no longer attached to him. It lacked a keyboard, too bad. The details in this room deserved more thorough description.
The urge might pass. It hadn’t been a day yet. When he woke up changed from the coma, everythin
