The Death of a Man

Andy's memory from the operating table were an amorphous swirl of fluorescent lights and the smell of his own flesh burning. The top of the snow globe on his bedside table had crusted with dust, a mirror image of the clumps of wet confetti snow that had settled on the bottom. Andy decided it was probably too late to check in. He'd sort through the issue on his video call next month, or wear a large jacket. His brain would have swollen into the fracture on his skull and he would have been no use to anyone.