Between life and death, between the deepest dark of night and the first rays of dawn, in that moment where we begin to drift from sleep to wakefulness, is where anything is possible . . . Jack Keeler wakes up one bright June morning to the shock of his life. He gazes in the mirror and sees a half-healed gash over his right eye and a hastily stitched-together wound in his shoulder that looks suspiciously like the result of a bullet. He also notices an intricately designed tattoo—words written in a foreign script—covering the length of his forearm. He’s alone, his house eerily silent without the delightful chatter of his wife and two daughters. He has absolutely no memory of how, when, or why he ended up in such gruesome physical condition.
