The first thing Vikram registered was the smell.
Antiseptic. The sharp, clean bite of a hospital, cutting through whatever was left of the fog inside his skull. He tried to move and his body said 'no' with the kind of authority that is not a suggestion.
His eyes opened.
Ceiling. White ceiling. Fluorescent lights that swayed like they were drunk, or maybe that was him.
People.
There were people around him. Hands on the gurney rails, hands adjusting IV lines, the efficient machinery of a trauma team moving in the organized way of people who have converted panic into procedure. He could hear the squeak of wheels on linoleum. The urgent murmuring of someone relaying numbers to someone else.
He tried to turn his head.
The neck brace stopped him.
'Okay.'
He looked from the corner of his eyes instead. Left. Right.
The hands gripping the gurney rails.
He saw the cuffs of the sleeves above those hands.
Black.
