Bits and pieces of conversation filtered through a haze of medication and pain.

“…possibly permanent damage to his hearing.”

“…least of his worries. That knee…”

“Glasgow scale’s up to an 8 from a 7 as of…”

He tried to speak; no sound came. He tried to see; crusts obscured his vision. He tried to move; pain danced a devilish jig across his body. He convulsed; concerned voices surrounded him as a new sensation washed with sickly calm across his mind.

A day later, maybe two, maybe a thousand, one male voice came. The voice was confident, strident almost, like a father on a 50’s sitcom. He found it reassuring, despite what it told him.

“You were found in a back alley, beaten and drugged, with something called a roofie. We’ve done everything we can, but only time will tell. There’s a tube in your throat and…well, other places. We’ll remove them as soon as we can. When you’re ready, when you can speak, the police would like to talk with you.”

All Sean could think was, “Karma’s a bitch.”