In a hospital room, Steve Rogers lies in a bed, a 1940s radio on the side table crackling with a baseball game.

“Curve ball, high and outside for ball one,” the announcer’s voice blares. “So the Dodgers are tied, 4-4. And the crowd well knows that with one swing of his bat, this fellow’s capable of making it a brand-new game again. Just an absolutely gorgeous day here at Ebbets Field. The Phillies have managed to tie it up at 4-4. But the Dodgers have three men on. Pearson beaned Reiser in Philadelphia last month. Wouldn’t the youngster like a hit here to return the favor? Pete leans in. Here’s the pitch. Swung on. A line to the right. And it gets past Rizzo. Three runs will score. Reiser heads to third. Durocher’s going to wave him in. Here comes the relay, but they won’t get him.”

A woman in a WWII-era Army uniform enters, her demeanor cheery.

“Good morning,” she says. “Or should I say afternoon?”

Steve, his eyes narrowing, shifts in the bed. “Where am I?”

“You’re in a recovery room in New York City,” she replies smoothly.

The radio continues, “The Dodgers take the lead, 8-4. Oh, Dodgers! Everyone is on their feet. What a game we have here today, folks. What a game, indeed.”

Steve glances at the radio, then back at the woman, his voice hardening with distrust. “Where am I?”