aching muscles. His butt was numb from sitting so long in one position, and he'd have a stiff neck from sleeping with his head at an awkward angle.
His clothes were damp. He was hungry, and he had to pee.
Most important, though, he'd had the dream again.
Shackled inside the nightmare, he couldn't escape the baby's crying, which had seemed even clearer and nearer than usual and had nudged him out of deep sleep. Now his conscious mind was coaxing him to come completely awake, but he resisted. As badly as he hated that recurring dream, he almost preferred it to full consciousness.
Why?
Then he remembered.
He remembered that he couldn't remember.
He had amnesia, which must have been caused by some weakness within himself. Even that smart-ass with a stethoscope had picked up on that psychological quirk.
It made him frustrated and angry to think that he was responsible for his intolerable malady. Surely he could remember if he really tried.
He peered into the dark recesses of his mind, straining to see a flicker of light. Something. Anything. A clue. A hint.
An infinitesimal speck of information about himself.
But there was absolutely nothing. Not a glimmer. His life in before waking up in the hospital was as dense and absent of light as a black hole.
To escape the nagging questions to which he had no answers, he opened his eyes. It was day, but there was no sunlight.
Raindrops splashed against the windshield, then merged to form crooked rivulets that trickled down the glass.
His head was resting against the passenger window. The glass felt pleasantly cool. He dreaded moving, but did so, tentatively raising his head. The headache wasn't as bad as it had been yesterday, but it was still a prizewinner.
"Good morning."
He turned his head toward her voice.
What he saw scared the hell out of him.
Chapter 4
She was nursing the baby.
The seat was angled back as far as it would go. Her head lay against the headrest. Her hair hadn't been combed since the rain got to it the night before, so it had dried into a tangled, blond mess. There were dark crescents of fatigue beneath her eyes. She was disheveled, but her expression was one of such unadulterated contentment that she looked beautiful.
She repeated her good-morning. Trying desperately to keep his eyes averted, and Ailing, he mumbled a reply.
It wasn't as though she was flaunting herself. She had draped a baby blanket over her shoulder to cover her chest. No flesh was exposed. He saw nothing of the baby except movement beneath the blanket. But she was a study of maternal bliss.
Why should that cause him to break into a cold sweat?
What the hell was the matter with him?
He was nauseated. His heartbeat raced and he felt claustrophobic, as though his air passages had been stuffed with cotton and his next gasping breath might be his last.
Equally repelled and fascinated, he wanted to get as far away as he could from her and the child, as fast as he could, and yet he couldn't stop looking at them. The aura of peacefulness that surrounded hera peace he was dead certain he had never experienced was magnetic. The contentment so evident in her expression seemed foreign to him. He would naturally be drawn to it.
Or maybe, he thought with self-disguise, he was transfixed for a prurient reason. Which made him a perverted sicko with a thing for nursing mothers.
He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose hard enough to bring tears. Maybe he hadn't survived the accident after all. Maybe he had died, and the hospital had been his purgatory, a waystation before being zoomed into the real thing.
Because surely this was hell.
"How do you feel?"
Before he could speak, he had to Swallow a mouthful of acrid saliva. "Take all the hangovers i'' history and multiply by ten."
"I'm sorry. I'd hoped we wouldn't wake you. You slept right through the diaper
His clothes were damp. He was hungry, and he had to pee.
Most important, though, he'd had the dream again.
Shackled inside the nightmare, he couldn't escape the baby's crying, which had seemed even clearer and nearer than usual and had nudged him out of deep sleep. Now his conscious mind was coaxing him to come completely awake, but he resisted. As badly as he hated that recurring dream, he almost preferred it to full consciousness.
Why?
Then he remembered.
He remembered that he couldn't remember.
He had amnesia, which must have been caused by some weakness within himself. Even that smart-ass with a stethoscope had picked up on that psychological quirk.
It made him frustrated and angry to think that he was responsible for his intolerable malady. Surely he could remember if he really tried.
He peered into the dark recesses of his mind, straining to see a flicker of light. Something. Anything. A clue. A hint.
An infinitesimal speck of information about himself.
But there was absolutely nothing. Not a glimmer. His life in before waking up in the hospital was as dense and absent of light as a black hole.
To escape the nagging questions to which he had no answers, he opened his eyes. It was day, but there was no sunlight.
Raindrops splashed against the windshield, then merged to form crooked rivulets that trickled down the glass.
His head was resting against the passenger window. The glass felt pleasantly cool. He dreaded moving, but did so, tentatively raising his head. The headache wasn't as bad as it had been yesterday, but it was still a prizewinner.
"Good morning."
He turned his head toward her voice.
What he saw scared the hell out of him.
Chapter 4
She was nursing the baby.
The seat was angled back as far as it would go. Her head lay against the headrest. Her hair hadn't been combed since the rain got to it the night before, so it had dried into a tangled, blond mess. There were dark crescents of fatigue beneath her eyes. She was disheveled, but her expression was one of such unadulterated contentment that she looked beautiful.
She repeated her good-morning. Trying desperately to keep his eyes averted, and Ailing, he mumbled a reply.
It wasn't as though she was flaunting herself. She had draped a baby blanket over her shoulder to cover her chest. No flesh was exposed. He saw nothing of the baby except movement beneath the blanket. But she was a study of maternal bliss.
Why should that cause him to break into a cold sweat?
What the hell was the matter with him?
He was nauseated. His heartbeat raced and he felt claustrophobic, as though his air passages had been stuffed with cotton and his next gasping breath might be his last.
Equally repelled and fascinated, he wanted to get as far away as he could from her and the child, as fast as he could, and yet he couldn't stop looking at them. The aura of peacefulness that surrounded hera peace he was dead certain he had never experienced was magnetic. The contentment so evident in her expression seemed foreign to him. He would naturally be drawn to it.
Or maybe, he thought with self-disguise, he was transfixed for a prurient reason. Which made him a perverted sicko with a thing for nursing mothers.
He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose hard enough to bring tears. Maybe he hadn't survived the accident after all. Maybe he had died, and the hospital had been his purgatory, a waystation before being zoomed into the real thing.
Because surely this was hell.
"How do you feel?"
Before he could speak, he had to Swallow a mouthful of acrid saliva. "Take all the hangovers i'' history and multiply by ten."
"I'm sorry. I'd hoped we wouldn't wake you. You slept right through the diaper
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