Chapter Nine
HOLTI come to with a choked gasp. The inside of my mouth is a desert made of cotton sitting on top of a throat filled with sand. My head vibrates with a sawing, throbbing headache unlike any I have ever known. A few more seconds pass before I realize I am propped semi-upright. I have an IV in one hand and it’s resting next to a plastic bed rail.
At first, I think I must be in the hospital. But then I realize no, I’m still in the penthouse. The setup reminds me of something I once saw on a history program about King George VI of England. Towards the end of his life, he needed surgery but instead of having to go into a hospital, the hospital came to him. Same here. But instead of an OR in the dining room, someone has set up a simple staging area in my den, complete with a hosp
