SAL. SAL VERDUCCI.

After being home for a certain amount of time, Sal had begun to relax, get into his usual pattern of being. That did not include finding a claim, or being in a claim, or ever loving a woman again. He’d put that part of him in a box, he’d locked away that box, and then promptly forgotten where the key was. His last three psychiatrists had quit, and he was fine with it. Until now. Now he needed to find a claim. The careful disruption of the life he’d planned out was so viciously ripped away, because if he didn’t take steps at least, to find claim, he would be of no use because he could very well be the reason the Verducci’s would be ripped out of Verona, even though he’d never done a thing... only that wasn’t exactly true. He liked to believe he was innocent, but he wasn’t.

Sal pulled aside the curtain, his face still buried in the chart. “So we have a skull fracture from an ax wound into the left temporal lobe a few years ago, we did repairs and you’re just here for a follow-up? Have you been having any memory or speech issues since?”