Nicholas Jordan’s eyes closed.
The harsh sound of the rainstorm outside of his room at the McLeary Rest Home threatened to make its presence known inside of the building by its wild slashing of the wind through the branches of an old oak tree. The noise of the thunder did nothing to arouse Nicholas Jordan from his bout with unconsciousness. The darkness behind his eyelids was occasionally disturbed by the electric flashing of his synaptic nerves. The only things that mattered at that moment to Mr. Jordan were the images which played on the screen of his resting brain.
