struggled vainly to find his bearings. He felt sick to his stomach and ached all over like he’d just finished running a marathon while simultaneously writing a graduate-level term paper.
“Where…where am I?” he muttered. His mouth was dry and tasted of cotton. He swallowed, struggling to open his eyes. It felt unnaturally bright, and he blinked several times. It didn’t help, though, and his vision was still blurry. “Where is this?”
“Shh,” a voice said. He felt a hand on his forehead, gently brushing his hair. “Shh. You’re safe now.”
The voice was soft and feminine, hypnotic.
“Where am I?” he asked again.
“You’re in St. Mary’s Hospital,” the woman said. Haatim blinked to clear his vision and saw a young woman standing next to his bed wearing green scrubs. She had red hair and lots of freckles. “Room 222.”
“How did I get here?”
“You were dropped off last night.”
“Why am I tied down?”
“You had a bad reaction to the drugs in your system and became violent. We had to restrain you.”
“The what’s in my system?”
She glanced at a clipboard on a bedside table and smiled at him. “You overdosed on narcotics late last evening. The police found you unconscious in an alley and brought you here.”
She stepped closer and undid the braces holding Haatim’s legs, then she moved to his hands and began unclipping those as well. He could smell her perfume: a sickly-sweet fruity concoction masking something else. Something that smelled vaguely like rotting meat. He couldn’t tell if it was coming from the nurse or something else in the room, though.
After a second, she finished freeing him and stepped back. The smell disappeared, and he wondered if he had imagined it. She smiled at him.
He rubbed his wrists and looked himself over. He was in a green and white hospital gown that looked and felt grimy. He saw his pants and shirt—no less grimy, but at least they were his—resting on a nearby chair.
“Better?” she asked
Haatim nodded. “Much. Thanks. Is it OK if I get changed?”
“Certainly,” she said. “I’ll be in the hall if you need me. Let me know when you have finished.”
“All right,” he said. She stepped out and closed the door. He stripped off the gown and put his own clothes back on. He wished he had something clean to wear, but it was better than nothing.
“I’m done,” he said.
She stepped back into the room and smiled at him. “Great. I just have a couple of questions before we call the doctor. What do you remember from last night?”
“I don’t remember anything, but I definitely don’t do any narcotics.”
“The police believe that a dosage was administered without your knowledge or permission.”
“You mean I was drugged?”
“Yes,” she said. “Do you remember anything that happened yesterday evening?”
Haatim racked his memory but kept coming back to one thing: “I was drugged ?” he echoed, shaking his head. It was throbbing and felt like it might explode at any moment. “That doesn’t sound right. Yeah, I remember some things. I mean, I think so…”
He trailed off, trying to piece his memories together. His thoughts were fragmented: he only had bits and pieces.
“I remember going out to the coffee shop, and then…”
He hesitated, remembering Abigail. He’d been following her and had caught up with her; something had fallen out a window, and she had told him something at his apartment and—
He suddenly remembered the attack at his apartment complex. It came back as a flood: he’d been running down the stairs and into the lobby of his apartment with Abigail, and someone had been shooting at them.
“No, I wasn’t drugged,” he said, speaking quickly. “I was poisoned . My apartment was shot up, and we were being chased into the lobby and…”
He trailed off, seeing her puzzled expression.
“Attacked?” she said. “No, I don’t believe so. You seemed rather out of it when they brought you in.
“Where…where am I?” he muttered. His mouth was dry and tasted of cotton. He swallowed, struggling to open his eyes. It felt unnaturally bright, and he blinked several times. It didn’t help, though, and his vision was still blurry. “Where is this?”
“Shh,” a voice said. He felt a hand on his forehead, gently brushing his hair. “Shh. You’re safe now.”
The voice was soft and feminine, hypnotic.
“Where am I?” he asked again.
“You’re in St. Mary’s Hospital,” the woman said. Haatim blinked to clear his vision and saw a young woman standing next to his bed wearing green scrubs. She had red hair and lots of freckles. “Room 222.”
“How did I get here?”
“You were dropped off last night.”
“Why am I tied down?”
“You had a bad reaction to the drugs in your system and became violent. We had to restrain you.”
“The what’s in my system?”
She glanced at a clipboard on a bedside table and smiled at him. “You overdosed on narcotics late last evening. The police found you unconscious in an alley and brought you here.”
She stepped closer and undid the braces holding Haatim’s legs, then she moved to his hands and began unclipping those as well. He could smell her perfume: a sickly-sweet fruity concoction masking something else. Something that smelled vaguely like rotting meat. He couldn’t tell if it was coming from the nurse or something else in the room, though.
After a second, she finished freeing him and stepped back. The smell disappeared, and he wondered if he had imagined it. She smiled at him.
He rubbed his wrists and looked himself over. He was in a green and white hospital gown that looked and felt grimy. He saw his pants and shirt—no less grimy, but at least they were his—resting on a nearby chair.
“Better?” she asked
Haatim nodded. “Much. Thanks. Is it OK if I get changed?”
“Certainly,” she said. “I’ll be in the hall if you need me. Let me know when you have finished.”
“All right,” he said. She stepped out and closed the door. He stripped off the gown and put his own clothes back on. He wished he had something clean to wear, but it was better than nothing.
“I’m done,” he said.
She stepped back into the room and smiled at him. “Great. I just have a couple of questions before we call the doctor. What do you remember from last night?”
“I don’t remember anything, but I definitely don’t do any narcotics.”
“The police believe that a dosage was administered without your knowledge or permission.”
“You mean I was drugged?”
“Yes,” she said. “Do you remember anything that happened yesterday evening?”
Haatim racked his memory but kept coming back to one thing: “I was drugged ?” he echoed, shaking his head. It was throbbing and felt like it might explode at any moment. “That doesn’t sound right. Yeah, I remember some things. I mean, I think so…”
He trailed off, trying to piece his memories together. His thoughts were fragmented: he only had bits and pieces.
“I remember going out to the coffee shop, and then…”
He hesitated, remembering Abigail. He’d been following her and had caught up with her; something had fallen out a window, and she had told him something at his apartment and—
He suddenly remembered the attack at his apartment complex. It came back as a flood: he’d been running down the stairs and into the lobby of his apartment with Abigail, and someone had been shooting at them.
“No, I wasn’t drugged,” he said, speaking quickly. “I was poisoned . My apartment was shot up, and we were being chased into the lobby and…”
He trailed off, seeing her puzzled expression.
“Attacked?” she said. “No, I don’t believe so. You seemed rather out of it when they brought you in.
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