David Bernard wakes up remembering his last rational thought the night before: don’t sleep here, it isn’t safe. Everything after that is a blur, vague images obscured by ever-thickening layers of pain and exhaustion. He’s lying on a mattress with clean sheets. The low hum of an air conditioner kicks in and cool air washes over his face. The constant, faint sound of tropical birds calling to each other can be heard just beyond the bedroom’s window.
I guess I didn’t take my own advice.
He sits up, surprised to feel neither pain nor dizziness. He obviously needed the rest, and it’s done him good—his vision is clear and sharp, and he’s thinking more clearly than he remembers in a long time. Even Crossfire’s special medical treatment, as remarkable as it was, hadn’t worked this well. That thought provokes a sudden surge of relief, as he realizes that the day before he couldn’t actually remember that part of his life. His memory is back—he remembers getting hurt the first time, the second time, seeking out Crossfire, working with them, agreeing to help LaFleur in his investigation, and then they—
David frowns. Then they—there was a—
He’s sitting in the cargo bay of a plane, checking the straps to his parachute for the seventh time. LaFleur is sitting across from him, doing the same.
“After we jump it’s likely we’ll be separated.” LaFleur has to raise his voice to be heard over the engines of the plane. “I’m sorry for that. It’s going to be a difficult transition…”
It’s the same thing he remembered yesterday, after reading the paper, but nothing more. So his memory hasn’t returned, not completely. He shrugs. Where he is today is remarkably better than where he was yesterday.
A little too remarkable, perhaps.