ii
Nestor looks up at the three men as they enter the room. He’s too confused to understand what’s going on. For one thing, he doesn’t remember having seen the door, but once seeing it, he looks at it as a possible way out. It closes before he even realizes it’s there, and just as quick, it’s gone. Vanishes. He doesn’t see it anymore. Two of the three men are dressed in three-piece suits—one’s wearing a turban—but the third man looks like a modern-day guru—the self-help kind—eating what’s left of an apple. Still, there’s something familiar about their faces Nestor thinks, but it’s nothing he can remember having seen—unless maybe it was a picture in a magazine.
“I tried calling for a nurse, but no one’s answering,” he says, mistaking the three men for doctors.
“That’s because there’s been a mix up,” the first man, the old Indian says, stepping forward politely. He’s wearing a grey suit with a maroon tie, his turban’s also maroon, and his green eyes are framed in a dark face highlighted by…
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