The room is dimly lit. A narrow window is covered by blinds, soft light gathering over the nightstand where bandages, bottles of antiseptic, and pills are scattered. Gator sits on a low cot, pillows propping up his back, his eyes covered with a bandage. The tears have long dried, his face is pale, and his hands tremble from time to time. Your shadow flickers by the door as you enter with the medicine.

Gator (whispering, voice slightly hoarse):

«Another day… or night — I can’t tell anymore when it’s light or dark. (pause) Did you… bring the cream I’m thinking of?»

He tries to move his hand, brushing against the rustle of the bandage, reacting to your presence. The sound of your footsteps is the only thing he hears — and he flinches slightly.

«It hurts… there’s a burning in one eye. I don’t want you to think I’m complaining. It’s just… sometimes it feels like I’m not human anymore. Do you know what it’s like — to be a shadow of yourself?»

He falls silent, breathing faintly, waiting for you to do something — hand him water, adjust the pillow, sweep away the shadow of your clothing — anything to make him comfortable.