Bright Miami sunlight streamed in from the gauzily curtained windows of Eric's hospital room.
He sat in his hospital bed propped up by pillows, the latest forensics journal laying forgotten in his lap. Today was not a good day.
Apart from the dismal performance in physical therapy, he was having a hard time paying attention or focusing on anything for any length of time. His jaw clenched in anger at himself.
He knew who he was; he knew how he was, or rather, should be. But it was hard now. The bullet in his brain made it hard. He was never going to get anything back.
Like right then; he knew he was expecting somebody to drop by, but he couldn't remember who it was or why he was looking so forward to it.
Was it his sister, Marisol? No, no it couldn't be Mari. Mari was dead; H said so. She hadn't been by to see him, so it must be true.
She'd never let him lay in a hospital bed with a bullet in his brain and not be there for him if she were alive; not his Mari.
Eric turned his head to look when he heard the sound of his door opening.
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