I’m wearing a breathing mask. It’s tight to my face and connected to a hose that goes behind my head. Can I get up? No. But I can move my head a little. I look down at my body. I’m naked and connected to more tubes than I can count. There’s one in each arm, one in each leg, one in my “gentlemen’s equipment,” and two that disappear under my thigh. I’m guessing one of them is up where the sun doesn’t shine. That can’t be good.
