He is drugged. Pinioned. Blind. His ears hurt, and the sounds he hears are wrong, missing entire octaves of vibration. I can't play the violin like this, he thinks, and then chokes on the tube down his throat when he wants to laugh, because he can't do anything at all, except lie here in the antiseptic darkness, waiting for someone to notice that he is drifting at the edge of consciousness. At least his nose still works, informing him that the hands which arrive to fuss over him belong to a woman, and a woman he knows at that.
Sarah?