[He's on a bed. He thinks it might be a bed. For a moment, a very long one, it felt like rocks sticking into his back. Sunlight might be getting in through the window. Might be something worse. So he keeps his eyes shut firmly. His hands are clenched in fists. Little half moons of nails digging into his palms. He breathes in and out, but it's so much more difficult going out than coming in.

But there are worse things. He's seeing most of them, his eyes shut tight. He doesn't want to know what he'll see when he opens them. Just in case there's no difference at all.]

Mother, mother, I'm sorry.

[That's what he says most often and most clearly.]