Fighting to get this under control.
…when the stitches were done some of the same grain alcohol being used to clean the scalp ended up going down Ted’s gullet. Two good knocks later, and he was sent off to his bunk, which surprised him. He was on the kind of ship that you’d expect would make you finish your shift, outpatient surgery or not. But aside from a few mutters, they let him try to get some sleep in peace.
Emphasis on try. The damn stitches hurt like hell. And when Ted finally did doze off, the dreams were awful, all feverish and red-tinged, with waves that sounded like scratches at the door. The dreams came in waves, too, making Ted feel hot and thirsty and even watched, despite the part of him which knew he was asleep. At least twice during the night he was brought to terrified wakefulness in the rocking cabin he shared with three other crewmembers — and where were they, anyway?
Ted decided they must be still out, working in the storm. He thought about trying to get up and help them, but the very thought unnerved him. It seemed just so much easier to lie in bed and wait for… whatever it was that was coming.
What came was dawn. And pirates.