A bright thin light is burrowing into my head, piercing the impenetrable darkness. Suddenly my battered brain restarts and I hear a voice calling my name. For a moment, I drift in a sea of nothingness as my circuits fire up. Then all at once, I see a vague image of my daughter, Crystal, and my son, Ted, crystalize in front of me. For a second, their faces hang there, burning themselves into my sluggish brain, before fading away. The voice calls again, and I’m powerless to resist its lure.
“Mr. Dawson! Mr. Dawson! Can you hear me? If you can, open your eyes. Can you hear me?”
I blink up at the bright light, then catch a fuzzy glimpse of a white lab coat.
“There you are,” the voice says with emphasis. It sounds familiar, but then I’ve seen so many people since I was brought here—whenever
