Bullets. Brass casings ejected from the barrel of a gun. Any gun. I could care less what kind. The copper metallic smell after you touch them. For some reason, I felt connected with them, not unlike the feeling a tennis player has connected to their racquet.

               I woke up, my head ringing, the smell of disinfectant washing over my senses, almost to the point of gagging me. It smelt like a hospital. Hearing the distinct beep-beep-beep of a heart monitor, I realized where I was, in a hospital bed. Restraints? No, not quite. But I couldn’t move. My left arm was hanging above me, a cast from my shoulder to wrist preventing me from moving much. Breathing hurt. My right hand was moveable but restrained, handcuffed to the bed. Makes sense, considering on the tray in front of me was a handful of loose bullets next to the tray of unedible hospital cuisine. The standard fare consisted of barely warm chicken broth, strawberry red jello, and a few packages of saltine crackers. Salt-free, of course, because you couldn’t have a lot of sodium in the hospital, especially if you were a heart patient. Therefore, no one could because the heart dudes couldn’t have it. Made sense, but only if you were a clinician.

None of what happened was coming back to me, except, of course, the bullets. I felt like they were a part of me somehow. My eyes. I could barely keep them open. I wasn’t sure what narcotics I was on, but whatever they were made me not even care about the bullets. Not right now. I closed my eyes, and the world went black.

               “Detective. You cannot bother him. He needs his rest.”

               “You do know what this man did, don’t you?”

               “Detective,” the nurse whispered, “I don’t care if this man massacred school kids. You will not disturb him. Not as long as we are treating him at St. Mary’s and not while I am on duty. Do I make myself clear?”

               “Lady, you are interfering with a criminal investigation.”

               “And the last time I checked, to question a suspect, they need to be fully conscious and aware of what they are being asked, isn’t that right?”

               I couldn’t keep my eyes open, not all the way. I could see the nurse and what I assumed was a hospital administrator speaking to a detective. It must’ve been the drugs. She wasn’t unattractive, not like other nurses I had seen. Short blonde hair and pale blue scrubs covered up her figure. Her nails were immaculate, as was her makeup. A thin chain hung from the nurse’s neck, but other than the chain, there was no other visible jewelry. For some reason, I thought this odd until I remembered reading that most nurses and doctors rarely wore rings. Something about sanitary conditions. I recognized the detective’s voice but not the nurse’s. My eyes closed again, not because I wanted them to.

               “Well, are we awake now?” I felt myself being moved around in the bed. “Just relax, sir. We’re changing the sheets. We’ll be done in a minute.” I was trying to figure out how they would do it without taking the handcuffs off, then they were finished. “See? All done now.” The voice was the nurse who stood her ground with the detective.

               My tongue felt thick in my mouth like it was covered in cotton, and I hadn’t had a drink in hours, maybe even days. I couldn’t be sure. The drugs certainly weren’t helping my recollection. My leg started itching, and I couldn’t reach it. I balled my right hand into a fist and gritted my teeth, hoping it would fade away. I couldn’t swallow; therefore, I couldn’t talk. I tried to croak out the word ‘water,’ but all that would come out was something I thought sounded like ‘waaa.’

               She popped up on the right side of the bed, scaring the crap out of me. She was like one of those wack-a-mole things, there one second, gone the next. “Did you need something, sweetheart?” Her voice dripped with the southern drawl of a sweet country girl.

               I tried pointing to the tray with the water pitcher and a small plastic cup. She got it because she smiled, winked at me, and poured the water, putting a bendable straw into it. Without a word, she helped me adjust myself to sit upright, holding the cup while I sucked on the straw. The water was cool, not cold. I took a few sips before she took it away from me. I barely touched the amount she poured.

               “Feel better?” she smiled. It didn’t occur to me until then that she changed her scrubs. Now she was wearing a more colorful fun pattern covered with baseballs, bats, gloves, and other baseball items. I didn’t figure her for a baseball fan, but I noticed a small pin attached to the neckline of her scrubs. The Cubs logo was prominent, but only if you were looking for it. Hard to see a Cubs fan in Missouri, but whatever. I wasn’t judging her. I didn’t like baseball anyway.

               “Where am I?” was the first question I asked her.

               “St. Mary’s Hospital, Mr. Danica.”

               “Mr. Danica?”

               “Yes.” She smiled, at least until she realized that I had no idea what she was talking about. “Mr. Danica? Do you not remember your name?” A panicked look washed over her, then she immediately went into nurse mode, checking vitals and all that jazz. “You, sir, are Mr. Bret Danica of Danica Incorporated.”