(Day Seven)
I dreamed Colleen sat beside me, patted my hand, urged me to open my eyes. “Wake up, sleepy head,” she said. I blinked. Her hands were cool on mine. She was so beautiful. But her hair wasn’t right. A wig? Low clouds rolled into my room, the fog thick. I felt its mist collect on my cheeks and Colleen released my hand.
Some time later, I don’t know how long, minutes, weeks, I felt her pressure again on the same hand—the touch of cool soft skin on skin fevered and hot. It took a few moments for my eyes to puzzle how to open. She sat beside me, a look of worried joy on her face.
Jill.
Beside her in a wheelchair and hospital gown sat Rusty, his arm done up in some kind of contraption. Rusty said something about bullet dodging that didn’t fully register. I commanded my hand to squeeze Jill’s. The action hurt like hellfire and I slipped away.
I woke with a start. Jill slept in a chair beside me, her head in an awkward position. The lights were off, the room’s window dark. A ribbon of light from the hall splashed across the floor behind her. Whatever drugs they had me on made it hard to think.
I tried to move parts of my body, taking stock. Again, instructions received by muscle groups arrived garbled. With some brief experimentation, I located two centers of pain. My left shoulder—I remembered taking the slug, and thinking .45 caliber as I slid to the floor. My left thigh felt as if someone applied a branding iron. And I felt a strange pseudo-pain below the thigh. I remembered amputee veterans of the Great War saying they could still feel their missing limbs years later.
I had to look, and tried to raise my head. The pain seared. I drew in air with a hiss. My head would have to stay put. Once that pain subsided I tried to speak, but I could not. I slept.