Tison woke but could not move. A breathing apparatus forced air into his lungs at intervals, and clinically white lights brought stinging tears to his eyes. Someone next to him shifted. A hand rested on his shoulder.
“Tison, it’s me.”
The young man shook his head. He knew that voice, once a comfort, now a hated memory. His body convulsed at the rejection. A distant howling slowly focused into a pulsing beep, dangerously fast.
“Tison, calm down, you’re safe for now.”
No, that wasn’t her. It was too deep. He couldn’t think clearly through the plastic and the cold sheets.
“You’ve made it through the first wave.”
Asphalt. Hot sun. He had not waved goodbye. He had been so angry. He still was.
“No, he’s not responding. Get his heart rate down. We have to stop this. I’ll come back soon.”
The hand left. The voice went with it, leaving him isolated, except she was still there. He clenched his fists against the invasion, at what it meant to everyone he knew. He began to count backwards though time.

Moviitch was next.