I walked into a side lounge room and saw Damien was passed out tied to a chair. The room might be opulent covered in the finest red and gold offerings of comfort, but it only stands to remind me of being handcuffed to a sloppy wooden chair in a barn in Texas. It feels like our situations have been reversed from when this all began and I was handcuffed to a chair in front of him. He looked beat up. There was a large laceration to his forehead. It looks like it was made from a fall crashing into something hard and sharp.
I’m a doctor, after all, I should sew it up. Does he deserve my skills? No. But that is not the point.
I went into the kitchen with Carla watching me from the bar and poured a bowel of warm water. I walked back to the room with a towel and placed it on his forehead
