My throat feels like it’s full of glass.
I blink.
Ceiling tiles.
Fluorescent lights.
The air smells like antiseptic and something metallic.
Hospital. I’m in a hospital.
The memory hits in fragments at first.
Storm.
Warning lights.
The drop.
Impact.
Then my memory rushes in like a tidal wave.
My chest heaves.
There’s something in my mouth. In my throat.
I panic.
I grab at it.
Hands.
Tube. Breathing tube?
I yank.
Someone shouts.
Alarms explode around me.
“Sir! Sir don’t?—!”
Too late.
I rip the tube out.
Pain rips down my throat and I choke, coughing violently, gagging on the burn.
I taste blood.
I don’t care.
I try to sit up, and the room spins hard enough to make me see black at the edges.
Hands grab my shoulders.
“Nurse! He’s awake!”