Dr. Gallinger.
He hears a man's voice from far away, calling his name as if from the end of a long, dark tunnel.
Slowly, gradually the darkness gives way to light, and Everett can make out a blurry silhouette of a person in front of him.
Dr. Gallinger… can you hear me?
Suddenly, nausea and dizziness wells up inside him, spins him round and round and prevents him from answering. Though the air surrounding him is cold, he's sweating profusely and can feel the liquid running down his spine, soaking his shirt.
The shape approaches, then reaches out a hand and firmly pulls down the bottom lid of one of Everett's eyes in order to inspect it.
His muscles feel like loose rubber bands, useless and limb, and he doesn't posses the strenght to lift his arm and swat off the insisting hand from his face even though he wants to.
Edwards.
Even in this confused state between being awake and unconscious and even though the man's face is still a dark blur, his voice slurry to Everett's ears, he has no doubt about his identity.
Somewhere close by a loud snort sounds out. The smell of hay and horse fills his nose.
Before Everett can even think about where he is, what he's doing there and what Edwards is doing there with him, his brain shuts down and he slips back into the darkness once again.