PLANET MAGAZINE

He lay back on the gurney, staring at the lights suspended above him. The bright glare burned his eyes, but he scarcely had the strength to close his weary lids. He was dimly aware of shapes around the edge of his vision, but moving his head was completely out of the question.

He concentrated on trying to breathe. His chest felt like a great weight bore down on it, and each painful intake was accompanied by an echo of artificial bells and whistles.

He tried to speak, and was instantly aware of something lodged in his throat. Not cold metal, but definitely something artificial. It pressed his tongue down while wedging his mouth open.

Instinct drove him to try clawing at his face, to try and remove whatever it was, and he somehow found the strength to tense the leaden muscles in his arms. But something held his wrists fast.

His confinement only began to add to his panic. The anxiety gave him fresh strength, and he increased his efforts to break free.

He was aware of shapes leaning over him, their features cast into deep shadow. He could hear their muffled voices — low tones that seemed distant, as if they were underwater.

He relaxed, concentrating on the voices. Gradually they grew clearer, to the point he could make them out.

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