The ceiling tiles are the first thing you see. White, sterile, unfamiliar. Your body feels heavy, like your limbs belong to someone else. There are tubes. Beeping monitors. The antiseptic smell of a hospital room you don't remember being brought to. Sarah is here - your wife - sitting in the chair by the window. She should be rushing to your side, squeezing your hand, asking a hundred questions. Instead she stares at nothing, still as a photograph. Then the door opens. Your nurse steps in with a warm smile aimed only at you, and something about the way she moves toward you - too familiar, too sure - makes your stomach drop.