He has the broad strokes by the time he's at the precinct.

A group of about 100 "protestors" have decided to surround the 5-4 and "protest" "peacefully"—which has escalated to throwing bricks and bottles.

Idiots, he thinks, parking a block away and putting sunglasses on, grateful he's in plainclothes.

People are shouting and throwing bricks.

Citizens of Fallujah yelling in their native tongue and throwing rocks and offal.

One man aims a bottle rocket at the front door.

One guy readies an RPG, and Danny dives for cover.

A small explosion shakes the ground under his feet, and he hits the ground.

It's hot, and he rests his head on one arm, covers his head with his other arm, and prays that death is quick.

Through the ringing in his ears, he hears someone saying a name—over and over and over again.

Then someone shaking him.

Voices…words…why is everyone speaking English?

"Danny, you're safe, it's over now. Your boss got them to go home."

His boss…don't they mean his C.O.? …why is everyone talking like they're home when clearly they're not home?

He shakes his head to clear it, and gentle hands grab it and hold it still. "Stay still, you have a concussion. Can you hear me?"

He gives a thumbs-up.

Why does whoever is pulling him up look so worried?

He doesn't protest as someone who looks suspiciously like a NYPD cop, pushes him into an ambulance.

Hours later he's been poked and prodded and he wants to go home, but he can't speak, he can't tell them his name, and for some reason that worries them.

The man standing by his bedside looks familiar…looks like his father…but why is his father in Fallujah and why is everyone speaking English?

He tries to force himself to talk but no sound is coming out.

He turns onto his side and hopes they leave him alone.

He wakes up to a man sitting next to him.

The man hands him a legal pad and a pen. "Do you know who I am?"

Doc, he scrawls.

"Good job. Do you know your name, and where you are?"

Danny. I don't know. Thought Fallujah but not sure.

"You're in New York. Do you remember what happened?"

Explosion. Think I was hit.

"There was an explosion outside your precinct. You hit your head. They thought something had damaged your vocal cords, but maybe you just inhaled some smoke or toxins. There's also the possibility that it's psychosomatic. You thought you were in Fallujah?"

Flashback. Stop analyzing me when I can't talk. My head's killing me. Go away.

"I'll leave—after you try to say something. Say the first name that pops into your head."

"Linda," he rasps out, and turns away from Doc and pulls the blanket over his head.