Weston wakes in a strange place.
He's lying on a narrow bed in a cramped, dimly-lit room. Beside the bed is a nightstand, its chipped paint matching the scarred finish of the single wooden chair. Both the view and light from a tiny window are obstructed by a heavy-mesh screen, bolted into the pocked cinderblock wall.
Walls, chair, nightstand, bed, everything is gray--a dull, dismal gray.
Weston feels a surge of fear.
A cell--?
No, he tells himself, it can't be a cell, the room smells too clean; and besides, the door is wide open.
Frowning, he sorts through his memory, trying to fit together the vague fragments of the previous night: a long ride ... being wheeled to this room ... a glass of water and a capsule ... a gray capsule.
It occurs to Weston that he might be in a hospital. Maybe ... but the room seems a bit dreary and rundown, even for a private hospital.
Still puzzled, he tries to rub his nose; suddenly, he remembers that he has no control over his hand, or arm ... or any of his limbs. He takes a check: he can still move his eyes; and, though he can swallow, he's unable to make a sound, not even a cough. Moving his head, Weston learns that his neck is painfully stiff. And, clearly, everything below his neck is completely numb, paralyzed.
As he turns his head to look back at the window, Weston glimpses a glittering array from the corner of his eye--a reflected sparkling near the foot of the bed. With an effort, he cranes his neck to look directly at the suspected source of the reflection. Sure enough, the gray blanket has worked up, exposing his toes.
Relaxing his neck, Weston eases his head back to the pillow. The transition is almost complete, he thinks, chuckling silently; and soon, he'll be very special. He'll count! Excitement wells up, almost choking him.
Slowly the glee subsides.
Curious, Weston gazes out the door into the well-lighted hallway. He sees a man hurry by, carrying a small tray. Presently another figure passes the doorway. Both men are wearing neat white uniforms with plastic name tags.
Nurses?
Weston decides the place must be a hospital.
Inwardly, he smiles, thinking that Addie had finally noticed the change and panicked, calling an ambulance; but he doesn't know for sure. He tries to visualize his wife's shocked expression at the moment of recognition ... but for some reason, Addie's features remain blurred.
Dammit! He'd tried to tell her. She wouldn't listen. Addie never really listened to him.
Weston swallows, trying to work up moisture and wash away the dryness in his mouth. Christ! he thinks, twenty-two years with the woman--half his life. And now he can't even recall her image.
The thought dampens his elation.
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