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I
start
to
zone
out
.
And
then
I
start
to
wonder
about
this
state
I
’
m
in
.
If
I
’
m
not
dead
—
and
the
heart
monitor
is
bleeping
along
,
so
I
assume
I
’
m
not
—
but
I
’
m
not
in
my
body
,
either
,
can
I
go
anywhere
?
Am
I
a
ghost
?
Could
I
transport
myself
to
a
beach
in
Hawaii
?
Can
I
pop
over
to
Carnegie
Hall
in
New
York
City
?
Can
I
go
to
Teddy
?
Just
for
the
sake
of
experiment
,
I
wiggle
my
nose
like
Samantha
on
Bewitched
.
Nothing
happens
.
I
snap
my
fingers
.
Click
my
heels
.
I
’
m
still
here
.
I
decide
to
try
a
simpler
maneuver
.
I
walk
into
the
wall
,
imagining
that
I
’
ll
float
through
it
and
come
out
the
other
side
.
Except
that
what
happens
when
I
walk
into
the
wall
is
that
I
hit
a
wall
.
A
nurse
bustles
in
with
a
bag
of
blood
,
and
before
the
door
shuts
behind
her
,
I
slip
through
it
.
Now
I
’
m
in
the
hospital
corridor
.
There
are
lots
of
doctors
and
nurses
in
blue
and
green
scrubs
hustling
around
.
A
woman
on
a
gurney
,
her
hair
in
a
gauzy
blue
shower
cap
,
an
IV
in
her
arm
,
calls
out
,
"
William
,
William
.
"
I
walk
a
little
farther
.
There
are
rows
of
operating
rooms
,
all
full
of
sleeping
people
.
If
the
patients
inside
these
rooms
are
like
me
,
why
then
can
’
t
I
see
the
people
outside
the
people
?
Is
everyone
else
loitering
about
like
I
seem
to
be
?
I
’
d
really
like
to
meet
someone
in
my
condition
.
I
have
some
questions
,
like
,
what
is
this
state
I
’
m
in
exactly
and
how
do
I
get
out
of
it
?
How
do
I
get
back
to
my
body
?
Do
I
have
to
wait
for
the
doctors
to
wake
me
up
?
But
there
’
s
no
one
else
like
me
around
.
Maybe
the
rest
of
them
figured
out
how
to
get
to
Hawaii
.
I
follow
a
nurse
through
a
set
of
automatic
double
doors
.
I
’
m
in
a
small
waiting
room
now
.
My
grandparents
are
here
.
Gran
is
chattering
away
to
Gramps
,
or
maybe
just
to
the
air
.
It
’
s
her
way
of
not
letting
emotion
get
the
best
of
her
.
I
’
ve
seen
her
do
it
before
,
when
Gramps
had
a
heart
attack
.
She
is
wearing
her
Wellies
and
her
gardening
smock
,
which
is
smudged
with
mud
.
She
must
have
been
working
in
her
greenhouse
when
she
heard
about
us
.
Gran
’
s
hair
is
short
and
curly
and
gray
;
she
’
s
been
wearing
it
in
a
permanent
wave
,
Dad
says
,
since
the
1970s
.
"
It
’
s
easy
,
"
Gran
says
.
"
No
muss
,
no
fuss
.
"
This
is
so
typical
of
her
.
No
nonsense
.
She
’
s
so
quintessentially
practical
that
most
people
would
never
guess
she
has
a
thing
for
angels
.
She
keeps
a
collection
of
ceramic
angels
,
yarn
-
doll
angels
,
blown
-
glass
angels
,
you
-
name
-
it
angels
,
in
a
special
china
hutch
in
her
sewing
room
.
And
she
doesn
’
t
just
collect
angels
;
she
believes
in
them
.
She
thinks
that
they
’
re
everywhere
.
Once
,
a
pair
of
loons
nested
in
the
pond
in
the
woods
behind
their
house
.
Gran
was
convinced
that
it
was
her
long
-
dead
parents
,
come
to
watch
over
her
.
Another
time
,
we
were
sitting
outside
on
her
porch
and
I
saw
a
red
bird
.
"
Is
that
a
red
crossbill
?
"
I
’
d
asked
Gran
.
She
’
d
shaken
her
head
.
"
My
sister
Gloria
is
a
crossbill
,
"
Gran
had
said
,
referring
to
my
recently
deceased
great
-
aunt
Glo
,
with
whom
Gran
had
never
gotten
along
.
"
She
wouldn
’
t
be
coming
around
here
.
"
