It made me want to get away from my own consciousness. Then I realized that I didn’t know where I was. Only confusion met my attempts to think. Confusion multiplied a hundredfold by pain. I heard a whimper and thought it was mine. I tried to open my eyes, and the light cut into them like a razor into flesh. I heard a voice, not speaking my language, and wished it away. The hand on my shoulder, although gentle, terrified me because it might belong to the person who had hurt me. “Madam?” The voice was female and nonthreatening. Eyes still closed, I whispered, “Where am I?” More foreign voices conferred softly. Then a man’s voice in accented English said, “Madam, you are in a hospital.” “Where?” “In Lyon, France. Do you know your name?” Did I? “Carolyn? Carolyn Blue?” “And you live in Lyon?” Did I? Memories began to slip through the agony, and I replied, “Charlemagne. On Charlemagne Cour. My hotel.” “You are a visitor to our city?” More memories leaked in between the waves of pain.
