Something ...

Something clawed at his throat. Reaching up, Flynn's hand was intercepted by a smaller, softer one. Nothing was said, but he felt something leave his throat and mouth. He looked through squinting eyes just in time to see the end of a respirator tube being pulled away.

First attempts to speak were useless. His vocal cords had been stretched by the intubation for so long that they would not function properly. At last he thought to try to whisper. "What ... ?" A finger pressed against his lips.

"Hush a'noo. There's a guid laddie. Dinnae try to speak joost yit." Cool liquid dribbled into his mouth, and he swallowed to keep from choking. His throat now felt like something with spikes had crawled in and died there.

What he wanted was answers. Where was he? Did anyone in his organization know? Know what had happened to him? What was going on? Was he going to be OK? He vaguely recalled being prepped for surgery after an excruciating ride in his company helicopter.

What had been the outcome? Well, at least he wasn't dead. But he wanted answers, dammit! Flynn tried again.

"What? Am I OK?" The finger came back for just an instant, long enough to silence him. Then he heard the sound of a door shutting, and there was silence.

He lay there for a time trying to make sense of it all. At last, his reduced energy levels caused him to drift back into unconsciousness, but this time he was sleeping naturally, not in a drug-induced stupor.