Luminous markings on the travel clock on his bedside table gleamed a faint spectral green. It told him it was half past twelve. Whether that was thirty minutes beyond midnight or midday he had no way of knowing. Usually, the first sensation to reach him on waking was the itch in his injured eye. The bomb explosion, which claimed the lives of his colleagues, had sent a sliver of glass flying through the air to nearly detach his eyelid from his face. Slowly, new cells knitted themselves into his flesh. In his imagination, the pricking resulted from dozens of miniature needles that sewed the wound shut from within. As he lay there, one finger lightly touching the swollen flesh above his eye, he became acutely conscious of the flow of blood through his own body. The stuff of life. This was the miracle liquid on which all animals depended. Alec had read somewhere that blood resembled the make-up of ocean waters to a remarkable degree. It had the same saltiness; it contained elements in suspension, such as iron, zinc and magnesium.
