It was the voices that woke him. From somewhere deep in his dream, he slowly became aware of them. Words filtered into awareness, then into his perception.

"Are we ready?"

"Yes."

"Then we can begin."

Orders were issued; responses given. As he listened, questions occurred to him. What's going on? What are they talking about?

He felt a weight settle on his chest, slowly squeezing the breath from his body. His lungs protested; his ribs complained. What is this about? I have to wake up!

He forced his eyes open. His vision was now obscured by a thin film of tears and mucus. Reflexively, he raised his arm to wipe his face and clear his eyes. But, no matter how hard he strained, his arms barely moved. Blurred shapes appeared above him - masked faces, anonymous and hidden behind blue paper.

"How is he?"

"All vitals are good. We can start stage two."

"Good. Go ahead."

Whispered questions hovered just below his hearing. Strange sensations teased his flesh. And all the while, the faces moved around and around and -

"Shit! think he's awake."

"Really? Let me check."

"Do we have to?"

He struggled, tried to talk, to plead, to beg, to curse, to resist. His body shook against its bonds.

"He's awake! He can see us!"

"Abort! Abort!"

There was a sharp pain in his arm, the sensation of cold fluid intruding. Unconsciousness descended on him, like a grey blanket.

"You'll be alright. Don't worry." My wife ... ?

He sat upright; his heart was pounding, his breathing was laboured. He groaned.

From beside him: "What's wrong?" His wife's voice was drowsy and slurred by sleep.

"I don't know. A dream? I think."

Her voice faded. "You'll be alright. Don't worry."

He lay back down, resting his head on the pillows, and stared up at the ceiling. Sleep did not come.