I’m in a surgical suite, surrounded by doctors in scrubs and masks looking down at me.
“Another ten-cc dose,” a woman’s voice says. “He’s waking up.”
An anesthesiologist puts a mask over my face. I try to resist, but my limbs aren’t working.
A sheet is pulled from my chest. Betadine is swabbed across my shoulder in the area of my scar. A doctor leans over and probes at the scar with gloved hands.
“This looks painful,” she says.
There’s something familiar about her voice. I look at the set of eyes above the mask. Attractive eyes.
It’s Dr. Acosta, The Program doctor who examined me before my last mission.
But how could that be? What is she doing in a hospital in Saratoga Springs?
She picks up a scalpel and moves it toward my chest.
I try to fight back, wake myself from what I’m sure is a nightmare. But the anesthesia will not allow it. As the scalpel blade descends, I slip down into blackness.