The footsteps stopped beside his door. A panel slid open, and a face peered in.
"How are you feeling?" the man asked.
He walked up to the panel, and saw that the man who questioned him was dressed in a brown uniform. He had an object on his waist which could be identified, after a moment, as a weapon. This man was undoubtedly a guard. He had a blunt, unreadable face.
"Could you tell me my name?" he asked the guard.
"Call yourself 402," the guard said. "That's your cell number."
He didn't like it. But 402 was better than nothing at all. He asked the guard, "Have I been sick for long? Am I getting better?"
"Yes," the guard said, in a voice that carried no conviction. "The important thing is, stay quiet. Obey the rules. That's the best way."
"Certainly," said 402. "But why can't I remember anything?"
"Well, that's the way it goes," the guard said. He started to walk away.
402 called after him, "Wait! You can't just leave me like this, you have to tell me something. What happened to me? Why am I in this hospital?"