“Doc! Wake up.” Blinking a few times, he tried to focus on his surroundings. Frequent travel meant hotel rooms, room service, and valets at your disposal. But when you’re at home? It’s not the same unless you have a spouse or significant other taking exemplary care of you. Terrence was getting used to the horrific dreams. Trauma responses he was well-versed in, having lived through a few himself. Getting back to his work meant entertaining the dangerous activities he was accustomed to. But today, it was all he could do to remember where the hell he was. “Doc. You were having another one,” said a woman standing over his bed, holding a glass of water. “You were screaming that it wasn’t your fault.” She handed him the water as he sat up, propping the pillows behind himself first.

               “You know it wasn’t. I did it right. All of it.” The water went down like an alcoholic drinking his first shot.

               “Doc. You have to process this.”

               “I am,” he said, pulling the covers up and tucking them under his armpits. “Have you ever experienced trauma like I have?”

               “No, Doc. I haven’t.”

               “I expect better from a fourth-year intern, Ms. Cartright.”

               “Yes, Doc.”

               “Now, then. Tell me why you are standing in my bedroom?”

               “Doc. We aren’t in your bedroom.”

               “Nonsense!” He looked around the room, glancing at items he had collected over years of travel. A spear was gifted to him by the Massi people of Africa. The indigenous peoples of Borneo gave him a stuffed pig’s head, a blow-dart gun with several darts, and a strip of handwoven cloth that resembled a scarf. Each strip represented a color of their tribe, indicating that he was now one of them. Other various trinkets were sprinkled throughout the room. A photograph, blown up to poster size, showed himself standing with several Indian men and their wives. He handpicked each item and put it in its proper place, right where he wanted it. He was meticulous about the details of the location of each item. And he had been in this room often enough to know where each item belonged. “Everything is in its proper place, Ms. Cartright. Nothing is missing.”

               Except something was missing. A piece of pottery from the Middle East standing on a small, three-foot platform, fourteen feet from the foot of his bed. “Wait. Where is it?”

               “That’s what I was trying to tell you, Doc,” the intern whispered. “It’s missing. It’s like you were never in Egpyt. We need to figure out what happened.”

               “Nothing happened, you confounded . . .” he stopped himself. It was bad enough to be reprimanded at his age, with tenure, but chewing out interns wasn’t a part of him anymore. It was when he was younger, but he mellowed with age. At least that’s what he tried to tell himself, even if he didn’t believe it. “Where do you think we are?”

               “Doc. You are in a hospital. After the accident, they brought you here.”

               “Where is here? Because it looks like my bedroom, in my home. Are you saying someone wants access to my research?”

               “I don’t know, Doc. I know it’s not safe to talk in here. Can you walk?”

               “Of course I can walk!” The echo in the room wasn’t right, and Terrence knew his young intern was right. He wasn’t at home, although if he was here against his will, they wouldn’t let him walk out without saying something to him, right? Terrence swung his legs out of bed, recognizing the feel of his own silk pajamas. Touching them again, he noticed the silk was a little off, too. Could he not trust his own senses? He stood up, his legs trembling at the mere idea of standing up. Terrence started to fall backward, thankfully hitting the edge of the mattress instead of toppling over. “What in the name of all that is holy? Why can I not stand up, Ms. Cartright?”

               She grabbed him under his arm and stood him back up. “They’re giving you a slow acting muscle relaxer to prevent you from walking on your own. That way, you can’t walk out on your own. You’ll have to be helped. Which is why I’m here.” Ms. Cartright looked around, not seeing anyone dressed as servants, matching the appearance of Doc’s home staff so as not to give away his temporary imprisonment at a local facility.

               “If this is such an elaborate ruse,” he asked, Cartwright guiding him to the wardrobe with his suits, ties, and shoes, “how did they allow you to get in to see me?”

               “They think I’m ‘one of them,’ so I slipped under their radar. Finding you wasn’t easy. After the accident, no one was sure what hospital they had transported you to.” The good doctor had enough sense to wear undergarments underneath his pajamas so it didn’t embarrass him to be helped into a suit. Dawn worked fast to get him dressed, knowing that taking him out of there meant risking their lives. At least, she assumed that was the risk.

               “Dawn.” He looked into her eyes, addressing her not as a student or an employee but as a real person. “Thank you.” Dawn finished tying his wingtips, two neat bows atop his brown leather shoes. She helped him to his feet.

               “You can thank me as soon as we’re out of here. Sound good to you?”

               Doctor Terrence Vashaharma nodded.