Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

More light. It blinds me. A headlight shining right into my eye, bright as the sun. My left eyelid shuts and the other one opens. It’s forced open and exposed to another beam of blinding light, examining me. Looking straight into my brain. My right eyelid shuts and I hear the flick of a button.

A hand on my shoulder, a gentle nudge. A man’s soothing voice. “Mr. Wheeler, are you awake?”

I am at the bottom of a well, the back end of a long tunnel. The man’s voice is close, but I – the conscious me – am far away. Deep down inside myself.

“Take your time,” the man says.

Slowly, I drift to the surface, toward the light of shallow water. Water, putrid water. Running along the bottom of a culvert drain. The memory jolts me awake, but I’m unable to move. My body’s paralyzed. My eyes flash open and the brightness stings.

I’m lying in a bed in what appears to be an operating room. The windowless walls are covered in white subway tile. An adjustable lamp is hanging directly overhead. Sharp surgical tools are arranged atop a steel tray beside me, several of them stained red. The lone man is dressed in a blue smock, his head covered in a scrub cap, his face hidden behind a white surgical mask. His brown eyes gaze into mine as he removes yellow latex gloves. I notice that they are speckled with blood. I presume mine.

My first thought is that I’m alive, and it brings tremendous relief. I made it out of that tunnel. Maybe they left me for dead, I don’t know, but they didn’t kill me. And now I’m somewhere safe.

I open my mouth to speak but all I can do is croak.

“Let me get you some water.” The man fills a small paper cup from a bedside spout. It’s cool and refreshing, although it burns a little as it wets my throat. He refills it and I drink again, easier this time. I gasp it feels so good.

I feel ready to speak. “What am I?” I say, mixing “What happened?” with “Where am I?”

The doctor’s eyes crinkle, the mask hides his smile. “You’ve been in an accident. It was quite serious, but you’re going to be okay. Just relax.”

The last memory I have is of that twin mechanic doubled over in the narrow culvert holding Caspian’s severed head. The tunnel was dark, though. And I was scared witless. It could easily have been a prop. It must have been.

I’m not sure what knocked me out. Could have been a needle to the neck or a knock to the head. That snickering hick with the tire iron had snuck up behind me – “Told you, boy.” – just before the world had gone black.