The next few weeks are almost as disorienting as the coma, but because of the pain and the medication for the pain, they're almost worse.

As it turns out, being in an induced coma and not moving for two weeks turns a person's muscles to mush. All of my hard work at the gym has vanished, and I'm a skinny, frail weakling. At least I think I am. It's not like I can get up and look at myself in a full-length mirror.

The physical therapist that comes twice a day tells me otherwise, that I'm strong.

"You'll be back in shape in no time." His name is Hans, and he's about my age, with close-cropped brown hair and a silver stud in his ear. My exercises are simple, like wiggling my feet.

I have my doubts about my strength, from the way my muscles scream in protest.

But the pain is better than almost every other part of the day. I spend long moments in an opioid haze, and that's pure torture because it leaves me alone with my slowly recovering mind. Each memory is more painful than the last.

Where is Zoe? Matthew? Paul?

Juliette?

Does she know I'm here? How can I call her? What if her phone is tapped? I can't risk it, not now.

She's probably beyond worried. How long have I been here? When am I getting out?

I need to get home to Miami...

My guilt settles in, fogging my stark hospital room and accompanying me in my sweet oxycontin dreams, haunting my fantasies of Juliette.

Fuck...

In the painful, lucid moments, I try to piece together those final hours. I think I know what happened, but it's not like I can ask anyone to confirm my suspicion.

The night before we were supposed to leave, Zoe, Matthew and I went to the warehouse to meet Paul and the Chinese source. We'd done the deal, everything was perfect and all that was left was for the second half of the money transfer into the Swiss bank account. And then we'd be free to go home. Free to start a new life with Juliette.

Zoe and I walked out first, while Paul, Matthew and the Chinese guy lingered.

Paul's driver was somewhere, too, but I can't recall where.

I do remember turning my head, wondering if everyone was behind me.

Zoe smacked my arm. "Hold my bag. I'm going to smoke. I don't have a light and am going to ask that guy over there." She pointed to a man about a half-block away.

"Be quick." I grabbed her black satchel. Since I'd practically raised Zoe, I didn't mind when she asked me to carry her purse.

She walked off, checking her phone. Zoe always walked quickly, and I turned to follow, not wanting her to be alone on an unfamiliar street.

And then, the blast.

That's all I remember.

"Hey, bro," I say to Hans. We're in a therapy room on the far end of the hospital floor. For the first time, I'm not in my bed, which means the casts have come off my arms, but I'm still weak as shit.

I'm told I've been in this hospital almost three months now, which is almost inconceivable. It seems like I've been here for forty-eight hours, at the most, but that's what opioids do. They twist and turn time.

"Yeah, man?" Hans grins and hands me a five-pound weight ball.

"Did you hear about the bombing that injured me?" I grip the little blue rubber ball with both hands and push it slowly away from my body. It's a five-pounder. I can now do ten reps without feeling like collapsing.

"Of course, it was all over the news," he says mildly. "Three guys died."

"Guys? Wow. No women?"

He frowns. "No. Definitely not. The news said men. They were involved in a drug deal in the warehouse when it was bombed by some rival dealers. And you were walking by. Probably going to that club down the street. It's a good fucking club, man. When you get better, we should check it out together."

I shake my head and breathe as I push the ball away and toward my chest.

"At least that's what cops told the doctors and nurses here. Unless you were part of the drug deal."

I hold the ball away from my body, still. What's he getting at? Is Hans an undercover agent? The room seems sharper, all of a sudden. Is this a setup?

He takes the ball from my hands. "Just kidding, man. I know you wouldn't be involved in that. You're one of those good American guys. The kind that would be an action movie hero. You've got that look."

I huff out a laugh, hoping he doesn't notice the vein throbbing in my temple. "Yeah. Hey, I'm feeling super tired today. I think I'd like to stop."

"Yeah? Okay. You've been working yourself pretty hard this week. Let's get you back."

I ease my body into the wheelchair and an orderly takes me back to my room. A nurse enters and gives me another pain pill. As I sink into the mattress — my body and it are practically one at this point — a question runs through my mind.

If three men died, where's Zoe?

More memories return, but I'm not sure if I can trust them, or the theories they spawn. Thoughts spin through my brain while I sit in my hospital bed, staring out the window at the cement-colored winter sky in a drug bubble.

My real passport, with my real name, is in a locker at Schiphol Airport. I think. At least it was. I hope it still is. That's how I always traveled when doing deals; I'd enter countries with the fake passport under the name Finnegan Davidson, but I'd also keep my real passport with me, just in case. Sewed in the lining of my luggage, then stowed in a separate, secure spot once I landed. The photos on each are different enough that no one would suspect anything.

Thank God I hadn't stowed the real documents in the hotel safe, because I can't remember the name or the location of the hotel where we'd stayed.

Zoe had my fake passport in her bag, which is why everyone here thinks my name is Finnegan. So where are Zoe's passports? That's what my addled brain can't figure out. I can't piece everything together, and it's driving me crazy.

Nothing makes sense.

Is Zoe back in Miami?

That must be it. She fled, scared. Caught the first flight home. It's what I told her to do, in case anything went wrong. Not wait for me. Not get herself in trouble.

Yes. She's gone back to Miami and she's with Juliette.

She'll tell Juliette that I'll be back. They're probably even monitoring my progress from afar, calling the hospital under a fake name. She and Vee are taking care of Juliette.

I'll be out of the hospital soon, and have all the answers.

Only a week or two more, the doctor says, and then I'll go to a rehab facility where there will be more freedom. There I'll have access to a computer and a phone, and I'll find my sister.

And hear Juliette's sweet voice once again.

____