Engulfed in darkness, suddenly — so suddenly — surrounded by blinding, painful light.

“Wh-where am I?” stammered Juan, uttering his first words in over 7 weeks as he adjusted his eyes to the scene around him.

“You were in an accident, sir,” the man at his bedside clad in scrubs said calmly, “you hit your head pretty hard. What is the last thing you remember?”

“The last thing I remember. Hmmm…well I was up on the roof at my worksite, then I remember that something happened, but, honestly, I can’t remember what.”

Still barely able to see due to the array of LED light sources, Juan judged, by the white walls, tiled floors, and manner by which the man beside him was communicating, that he must be in the hospital. But why? He racked his brain for answers, but to no avail.

“Do you know what happened to me?” asked Juan, panic rising in his throat and obvious in his tone. Suddenly, the intercom started blaring.

Three deeply monotone beeps, spaced evenly, then: “Code Violet, code violet. All ICU staff to Room 508.”

This pronouncement was repeated, interspersed with the three deep tones, over an over and, before Juan had a chance to stop him, the man beside him was already gone. Juan could feel, quite clearly, adrenaline shooting through his body. It hit his heart, which began to beat faster and faster; overcome by his instincts, he made the choice to flee. This decision was made due to two factors: first, his emotions, total confusion, complete fear. Second, as an illegal immigrant employed as a cash-only worker, he had no insurance and, while he didn’t know precisely how long he’d been unconscious, he was sure it was long enough to rack up a bill significant enough to ruin him financially.

He slowly withdrew the IV from his left arm, wincing as the needle slid out from his vein. Frantically, he searched the room, looking for something, anything that would help him, anything to help trigger his fractured memory. He pulled out the drawers from his bedside cabinet, revealing three primary items. First, a Gideon Bible: “This won’t be of any help,”. Second, folded neatly in the second drawer, were his blood-stained street clothes: Arizona jeans, Hanes boxers, a Carhartt work shirt. He tossed aside his teal hospital gown, donning his own clothes. Suddenly, as he zipped up his pants, something hit him. Not a full memory, no, more of a fragment, a piece of something more, something important. He saw a hammer in his minds eye, clutched in a hand. His own hand? A coworkers? He was unsure. Why this was important was equally unclear.

Snapping back to reality, he continued on his escape mission. For a moment, he paused; he wiped the sweat from his brow then inhaled a deep breath. Before this certain second, he was too hopped up on adrenaline to notice his own fatigue. However, as he took a brief time to regulate his heartbeat, his legs nearly buckled and he noticed a pounding migraine emanating from the base of his skull.

But there was no time for pain, not here, not now: Juan pushed on, the silver-headed, wood-handled hammer haunting his thoughts as a phantom image. He peeked his head out from behind the curtains surrounding his bed and was relieved to see no hospital staff in sight. He hid his face, staring towards the skid-marked, light-grey floor tiles and pulled the curtain back into place behind him as he exited his room into the hallway beyond.

Precisely 7 rooms down said hallway was a hallucinating patient — a man standing 6-and-a-half feet off the floor and outweighing all but the security guards. Currently, he, three nurses (including Jake, the nurse tending to Juan 5 minutes prior), and four massive guards were engaged in an altercation that alternated between physical struggle, as they attempted to calm him with a tranquilizing agent, and verbal taunts, a.k.a. the giant shouting slurs and profanities at the demons he saw plainly before him.

Jake was relieved within another 5 minutes, utterly exhausted, but fully-aware of the patient he’d had to abandon. He rushed back to Juan’s room; all he found inside were the discarded gown, an open 5th floor window, and a sheet dangling from the window’s frame pointing straight down to the gravelly roof of the floor below. Of course, Jake feared the worst.

Nearly dropping his cell phone as his shaky hands dialed the hospital operator, Jake began to sweat profusely wondering if Juan had been hurt in the fall. The line connected after two rings: “LINDA,” shouted Jake, “CODE GREEN, CODE GREEN. Room 501 is gone!!!”

Juan smiled slyly to himself, hearing the announcement as the automatic sliding doors of the ER closed behind him.

“I bet the window thing bought me 10 minutes at least.”

Since arriving in the US, Juan had remained on the straight-and-narrow; here, he was a contributing member of society, paying his dues to his community, even paying his taxes. In Guatemala, his home, he was still far from a gangster. However, there were certain skills, a street-wise intelligence, he had picked up throughout his dangerous life there, with the simple goal of survival. One such skill was the ability to hot-wire certain models of car, specifically those popular during his teenage years in Guatemala.

Juan made his way — ever so calmly, despite the genuine fear coursing through him — to the parking garage, where he quickly and quietly identified an easy target.

“Sorry about this, whoever you are. I need this more than you do right now.”

The passenger door was left unlocked; Juan slid in and momentarily despised his behavior, knowing that the car’s owner would likely assume someone of his color had taken their property. Again, a flash of memory struck him.

The line, ‘Sorry about this,’ reverberated inside his fragmented head. This is another piece of the puzzle: he knew it immediately! The cars engine turned over — once, twice — then the motor groaned on.

It was a beater to say the least, “…but shit, it’ll get the job done.”

This time, more information came quickly. He was back on the rooftop as he slammed the car into reverse, in the blistering sun, along with the crew he had recently been promoted to lead.

“¡Dios mio! The promotion!” Juan exclaimed out loud, simultaneously pulling past the unguarded guard gate and chuckling at both the irony and his own luck. A wave of realization overtook him and, by the time he had turned onto the busy street outside, Juan had pieced together the entire memory.

The hammer, ‘Sorry about this…’, and his recent promotion: it was fucking David! David was the only white guy on the construction crew Juan had worked with for the past 7 years. They had both been hired the same exact week; both of them were hard workers, but were also entirely different socially. While Juan was liked and respected, David’s overt racism, general lack of hygiene, and cocky attitude turned most of the crew against him and, when management asked around regarding replacing the retiring foreman, given the choice between David and Juan, the answer was obvious.

Back on that hot spring afternoon, 7 weeks ago, it was Juan and David working hard into dusk hours to finish placing the shingles on their current build. Hammer in hand, David took advantage of the setting sunlight that made it impossible for Juan to see anything to his rear, snuck directly behind him and: “Sorry about this, Juan.”

Relief sank deep into Juan’s bones, relief that he now knew what had happened, relief he wasn’t dead, and — most of all — relief that, with management on his side once he filled them in on the details, he could finally be rid of David.

“Pinche vato…” was the final thought in Juan’s head as he drove into the sunset to finally set things right.