A week passed as the man, still very much amnesic, struggled with his memory. He didn't get much, except for the boy.

While sitting in a bed all day long might seem enthralling to some, he found himself bored a good 90% of the time. He spent the remaining percentage passing the time by by observing the sad white-yellow ceiling, the ever-present dripper, the "beeping thing" as he now calls the pulse monitor, and also the people on the other side of the four glass walls of his room. You don't call a place where only one patient stays a "ward", right?

People in white robes going back and forth, scrutinizing him with their eyes and more often than not, scribbling something on their clip-boards. The room was illuminated by four mild spotlights, but he can't make out anything that was within 5 feet of the glass cage that he was in.

He felt like zoo attraction more than a medical patient. He asks Anne where he was, but Anne had a template answer ready each and every time: "Sir, you need your rest.."

But then, on the eighth day, Anne

~to be continued~