There was a man by my head with a syringe explaining something about my throat feeling scratchy afterwards, and a mask, and a smell like a swimming pool, and a woman saying count back from ten, and I believe I got to about seven.

And then it was a different room and a different light and there was a hand on my shoulder.

Nothing in between.

No dream, no dark, no sense of having been anywhere at all.

The two moments are stitched directly to each other in my memory with no seam, so that even now, nearly two years on, there is a part of my brain that insists those two things happened one after the other in the space of a second.

Which means that something happened to me, in that gap, that I have no access to.