Charles Arrington should be dead. The powerful explosion mangled the Mercedes S550 beyond recognition. It demolished his garage. And it killed his wife.
He’d been in an induced coma for three weeks. The medical team gave him little chance to survive, but he did. Two emergency surgeries stabilized his vital signs. Four more partially restored his shattered body.
Charles stirred in the hospital bed.
My throat hurts.
A plastic tube caused his discomfort.
Where am I?
He tried to open his eyes but couldn’t. Bandages and gauze covered his head.
Where is Myra? I was taking her to Dulles for the flight to New York.
He heard the softly purring oxygen machine but didn’t recognize the sound.
Where the hell am I? I was ready to back the car out of the garage, but I got out. I left my gloves on top of the car. What happened? Where is Myra?
The mental exertion tired and frustrated Charles. He slipped back into unconsciousness.
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