He awoke to the sounds of a bustling kitchen and pots and pans clanging.
“Can’t you keep quiet? The poor man’s asleep!”
“Sorry, mum.”
It was a strange experience.  He felt rather groggy, and had trouble in figuring out what was going on.  He lifted his head to look around, but a sharp stinging sensation from his tailbone all the way to his cranium stopped that idea in its tracks.  He also realized that turning his head caused similar pain.  By now he had woken up a bit, and deduced that he must be on a couch or bed of some sort. There was certainly a pillow beneath his head, and there was certainly a check-patterned ceiling above him.  He could not tell if there was a blanket on him or not, as he was completely numb from the neck down.  He had nothing better to do than lay there and think.  Curiously, he never thought to call out for help.
He thought about where he must me. Atlanta, he deduced quickly.  Of course, it would only make sense, considering the overnight trip.  He remembered the events on the train and sighed.  The sigh hurt, and he finally realized why. He was in mid thought when a sharp pain came from his arm, and he turned, despite more pain, to see a woman standing there touching it.
“Ah, see yer awake.  What can I do ye fer?  Ye musta had quite a spill back there on those tracks.  Whetcha doin’, honey?  Pleyein Chicken?”
Her dialect was disturbing and unfamiliar, but not unrecognizable.  It was considerably farther west than Atlanta, closer to where he himself had grown up. He hated that kind of country. What kind of country folk like this was in Atlanta, and with such a nice house nonetheless? He sighed and lost himself in thought again.
“Not a talker, eh?  Oh well.  We’ll get ter ye leter.  Fer now, rest.” Said the woman.  “My name is Gwen, and I’ll be taken care of ye fer a while, at least while Merv’s out huntin’” she continued and walked out of vision. He turned his head back toward the ceiling and a moment later felt a sharp pain in his arm again. He cried out and turned to look, seeing a hypodermic needled sticking out of his arm. He could not reach for it, fearing the pain would multiply, and instead quickly passed out. Before he did, though, a quote passed through his head. . .

"When you're drowning, you don't say 'I would be incredibly pleased if someone would have the foresight to notice me drowning and come and help me,' you just scream."

. . .And he was unconcious.