“Are his hands busy with anything?”

For the first time the doctor seems uncertain. She pauses, says, “No...,” and I hear her teeth click shut.

“Then you won’t mind if I print him.”

Something cool presses against my palms and fingertips. I hardly breathe.

“And I think I’ll restrain him, Doctor. For his own safety, of course.” I feel plastic zip-strips encircle my wrists, binding them to the railing.

“That’s hardly necessary, Detective. This man has suffered a serious concussion. He has also been injected with one hundred milligrams of nixolophan. Do you know what that means? In this case, that means he might not be coherent for some time. He might have memory loss. He may never speak. He might not even breathe unassisted ever again.”

I crack open my eyes, grateful not only for my optics but for my mother’s long lashes, and see Nunes clap a piece of paper to my chart. She is giving the doctor an unambiguous diecast look.

“I’ll leave the warrant here.” Nunes tosses the clipboard onto my groin. I don’t emit an incriminating groan, but it’s close. “When he’s awake I want to know about it. If I hear from either one of these officers here that you wait even ten seconds to call me, I’m considering that obstruction. Do you know what that means? In this case, Doctor, that means jail time.”

Again I am awakened by shaking, but this time it feels good— gentle, solicitous, it eases me out of it. The odor accompanying the action isn’t of the precinct, either; it has a full headnote of sandalwood and bamboo over something else, something Hesperidean that I can’t quite place: Covet.

“Wake up,” says the doctor. “We don’t have much time.” Standing before me is a tall, slim woman with the complexion and pointed canthus of someone from East Asia. Her lab coat has a name tag that says Dr. Nair Zandipour. When she takes off the mask I open my eyes, cough-clear my throat, and speak.

“Don’t I need that respirator, Doc?”

“You were never on a respirator. You are breathing just fine.”

“But I heard you say—”

“How do you feel?”

I want to tell her that I feel like . . . no, the truth is that the pain of Nix is unsimileable. I don’t feel like anything else. If I had to offer something, I’d say it feels as if all the iron in my blood has rusted. But it’s more than that. There’s also a paradoxical numbness, a hacksaw pain in my head, and an excruciating, allover chemical burn.

“Bad.”

“I can open up the drip a little but you’re already on a pretty heavy dose.”

She dials up the IV and I do my best to act relieved.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital. Not sure where.”

“Do you know what day it is? And your name?”