(206)

Here I am in the white room.
There are at least seven different IVs pumping me full of whatever I need to be full of to ward off, kill, or replenish whatever it is I could get, already got, or lost.
I have never been so happy to be strapped to a bed.
I can see a group of eggheads through the small slot of a window across the room. One of them waves when he sees that I’m awake.
I’d wave back, but I can’t move.
I fill my lungs with the sterile, sanitized air. I haven’t smelled air that didn’t reek of death in- how long?
How long was I out?
I hear the gears on the vault-like doors whirling, and then a pressurized gust pulls the sheet away from my body as the door opens.
The man in grey walks into the room followed by a group of eggheads in white.
“Pull all of this crap off of this man.” He commands, and the eggheads start to undo the straps
“He’s been through enough.” He says, and sits on the edge of the bed.
He starts to read from a file that I can see is typed in double spaced Courier, 14 pt.
Those are my words he’s reading.
“Two years and nine months.” He says, and taps my leg with the folder.
I sit up in bed and rub my wrists.
“That’s a long time.” I say.
“Longer than I expected.”
The man in grey nods and continues to flip through the file.
“Well,” he begins, “I guess we’re lucky you work on dog time.”
“Right. So how long?”
“Roughly? Twenty-four minutes, thirty-two seconds.”
“Shit!” I yell, and try to laugh but I can only cough, violently.
The man in grey walks to the side of the bed and pats me on the back.
“Get some rest.” He says “They’re going to want to talk to you.”