9
I wake up.
How much did I drink last night?
My head hurts like hell.
I try to remember what happened. I’m not in my own bed, but lying down in some kind of bed in a moving vehicle. Ambulance?
I try to open my eyes, but the light strikes a hammer-blow of pain, so I close them again.
“Darren, I’m here,” says a familiar soothing voice.
It’s Mira’s voice—and the reason I’m here comes back to me.
I was shot.
In the head.
That would explain this excruciating pain. I try to open my eyes, squinting cautiously.
“He’s conscious,” I hear Eugene say.
“That’s good news,” says an unfamiliar male voice.
“You’re not a doctor to be saying what constitutes good or bad news.” Mira’s tone is sharp. “I want a doctor to see him right away.”
“We’re on the way to the hospital,” the unfamiliar voic
