The repetitive beeps seep into his waking mind, as he begins to open his eyes an intense white light rips against them. He blinks and squints in an attempt to soften the intensity. He feels like he’s been asleep for days.
The coarse fabric rubs against his palms as he lightly shifts them from where they rest beside him. He wiggles his toes and shifts the weight of the back of his body as it presses against bedsores. The smell of cleaning alcohol draws into his nose and his eyes keep pressing against the light.
“…to Radiology, please, …. to… please…”
“…copy. Animal services notified… route to… Out.”
His ears pick parts of speech around and he brings a hand to his eyes.
“He’s awake. Nurse. I think he’s awake.”
A soft shuffle comes to a stop to his right, “Welcome back Mr. Whalin. You’re going to be a little groggy. You took a pretty good bump to the head. We’ll call your wife and let her know you’re awake. Then… some people just have some questions for you, when you’re ready.”
“I’m not married,” his throat is dry.
“Oh. I’m sorry. A young woman has been here to see you, I just assumed. Ms. Barr— something.”
“Barrett. Ricki. Can I have some water?”
“I’ll go get you some ice chips, okay?” the shuffling moves to the foot of his bed and beyond. He peaks his eyes open slowly, the light kinder now as it has probed the lids now. He’s in a single hospital bed, and old T.V. hangs in the corner above a generic painting of a dusty field of flowers. A striped privacy curtain hugs the doorframe, a man leaning against one side.
“Sherif Wayne’s on his way. He has a few questions for you.”
The radio on his belt spills voices into the room, and the gun on his other hip is holds quietly. The man has a trimmed mustache and neatly parted blonde hair.
He lays his head flat against his pillow and stares at the one fluorescent light beating down on him. The speckled panels stuck against the ceiling seem oddly uniform to him, and very human.
“…Herman. Mr. Whalin? Can you hear me? My name is Dr. Herman. How are you feeling today?”
He looks to his left suddenly. A man in a white coat is pressing a stethoscope against the crease in his arm and a blood pressure cuff constricts him, “What? When did you…?”
“—he must still be a little groggy, sir.”
“He seems to be doing a little better.”
“Pressure 111 over 70. That’s good. Better than when they brought you in, Mr. Whalin,” the nurse smiles at him.
“He’s still a little dehydrated, Hang another bag and keep monitoring him.”
He follows the tube from the back of his hand to the metal pole standing by his side. The droplets slowly plopping into the pool waiting to slide into his body. Drop after drop.
“—there? Hey. They said you were asking for water. Are you still thirsty?”
“…Ricki.”
“Hey, babe. I’ve been worried about you,” she squeezes his big toes gently.
“I. I’m back?”
She looks at him quizzically, “What do you mean? Yeah. You’re in the hospital. You’re alright,” she smiles.
“When did I get back?”
“Back? Cruise, what happened to you? They found you in a field by the highway. Your truck was parked on the shoulder and they say you must’ve passed out.”
“My truck?”
“Babe, were you…drinking?”
“No. No, I just—I saw it, and then. I got out of my truck. I parked it, I don’t think it was working. And then I saw it. I got out and then it just…picked me up. I don’t remember.”
“Picked you up? What picked you up?”
“The ship, Ricki. The spaceship. It took me. But now I’m, I’m back. I’m back. I’m alright. I’m back.”
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