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And when he speaks -- "Mr Charles" -- his voice low and choked from months of disuse, no-one's there.
They tell him that the man came to visit him – at least, they say a man came to visit him, but the name isn't one he knows, and when he tries to contact him, there's nothing but a disconnected phone and a messy paper trail that speaks of fronts and fakes and disappearing acts.
He knows the face, knows the voice, knows the heavy weight of trust he'd offered up; knows the hollow spot where those things rested and are no longer his, and trapped somewhere he cannot reach, and he wants them, wants them back as his own.
Wants some measure of comfort, some reassurance that he'll see him again – that he'll know him if he sees him again.
They tell him he's sure to readjust, that he's picking things up quickly, that he'll be back to normal any time, and that's a lie that sits like ash on his tongue, sharp and choking and remnants of his sanity, of his past, of the things he should know and doesn't. There's no going back to what he was, even if he could remember what it was, what normal is, and it's not like he doesn't see the glances they exchange over his head, like they're just waiting for some bomb under his skin to go off.