Free Midnight for the Broken by Michael Roux

again. Two cops with guns drawn stand at each side of the door. A nurse pushing a small cart follows them. She's shaking and won't look me in the eyes as she approaches. I let her examine me and don't make a fuss about the shot she gives me in my damaged arm. After handing me a couple pills and a paper cup full of water, she leaves a plate of meat.
    I'm midway through the food when the walls of the room go blurry. She's given me more than medicine. I try to scramble to the door, but everything spins and my world goes black before I make it to my feet.
     
    ~ O ~
     
    When I wake, I can't move my arms or legs. There's a band across my forehead, keeping me from looking around, and a strap over my mouth. I stare at the tiles in the ceiling. I don't recognize this place. A door opens and people march around me like soldiers. Only they’re not dressed like soldiers. They're wearing scrubs like at the hospital. Seven masked faces look down at me.
    “Good morning, Mister Moon,” one of them says.
    I glare back because I recognize the eyes from TV. It's the devil. That masked man is covered, but it's him. I know it. Dr. Snow, Jessica's father. I squirm and twist and fight the bonds that hold me down. The table I'm on shakes under my efforts, but I'm unable to move. I yell, wanting to shatter the walls with my anger, though the binding muffles my voice and I can barely breathe.
    “We're going to keep you like this for a while,” says Dr. Snow. He stares at me, searching for something. “Until you're ready to cooperate.” He seems to find what he's after and his eyes go wide. He turns as if he's leaving, then stops and peers back at me. “It's good to finally meet you.”
     

Chapter Nine: Conditions
     
    Dr. Snow and his staff leave me strapped onto the table for several days. No one brings me food, but a constant flow of warm fluid pumps through tubes injected into my injured arm. Though the drugs go straight to my veins, I can taste them, I can feel them. I don't crave, not like I used to, and the metallic aftertaste makes me feel like someone has placed an old penny in my mouth. The lights stay on and the next time someone comes close enough for me to see, they're wearing a plastic face shield.
    “Your attorney has come to see you,” says a woman with dark eyes while leaning over me. Her voice garbles from behind the shield. “You may speak, but don't make us rebind you.” She adjusts one strap and my lips throb as the pressure over my mouth leaves.
    I'm gasping for air as the woman steps back.
    “Hello, Ryan.” Mr. Jackson takes her place. “Are you being kept well?”
    I want to shake my head for emphasis, but I still can't move it. “No,” I try to say. My voice is dry and I cough violently from my effort. I swallow and try again. “No.”
    “This doesn't look comfortable.”
    “Where am I?” I ask.
    “A clinic." His voice is so calm, so casual. He's speaking to me as if we were sitting together in one of my hearings. But we're not. "You're being evaluated," he adds.
    I try to shake my head again, forgetting that I can't, and feel the skin under my hair pull and twist. “It's not a clinic,” I protest. “Where's Dr. Snow?”
    Mr. Jackson raises his eyebrows, seemingly impressed at my knowledge. “He's the head of the facility here, Ryan. He petitioned to move you from jail.”
    “Send me back.”
    “You don't want that.”
    I shake the cart, trying to free my arms. “I want to go home. I don't know what this place is, but I don't like it.”
    Mr. Jackson steps away, leaving me to stare at the ceiling. There's shuffling and some whispering that I can't make out. He leans over me again. “It's this or a trial, Ryan. I don't recommend the trial.”
    “A trial?” I want to yell, but the bindings around my chest are so tight I can't get enough breath in my lungs to build a loud expression. “For what?”
    “Attempted murder.”
    “I told you what happened. I didn't start the fight.”
    “There are