Strange Awakenings

2012 by Jim LaVigne When the friendly blue rectangle of the Hospital sign loomed up in his headlights, Baird let out a ragged sigh and gratefully steered his car off onto the side road. The countryside he drove through--rural Northern Minnesota--was still and dark and on the road before and behind there was almost no other traffic. Mostly pine forest and swamp, it was desolate country, broken only occasionally by a lonely farm or the expanse of a boggy lake, and the late fall, dead brown of the grass and the few denuded leafy trees only added to the middle of nowhere impression. And it in no way helped that, physically speaking, he felt like about five pounds of shit in a two pound bag. It seemed like a long drive to the hospital and he was wondering if hed somehow missed it, but then a clearing appeared on the right hand side of the two lane blacktop road and in the middle of it, a three-story, nearly square gray brick building. An illuminated sign by the road read County General Hospital and others indicated the Emergency entrance (outside of which stood a darkened ambulance) and the Main Entrance. Pulling into the parking lot, joining three other cars and a pickup truck, he was suddenly wracked with a coughing fit, great hacking barks that hurt like hell with every breath, and then spat some very nasty, foul-smelling gunk into a Kleenex. When the fit passed, leaving him gasping for air, weak and shaking, he gathered his things, his phone and laptop and other little items and then, bracing himself for the cold outside the baking car interior, got out and went to the trunk for his suitcase. Past a pair of swinging glass doors, the waiting room was dimly lit and done in shades of dull green. There were a couple of old couches and several chairs, end tables with dated, dog-eared magazines, a few lamps, a derelict coffee maker, and the obligatory TV bolted to the wall. Some faded landscape prints and a few informational posters served as decoration. On the opposite side was a glass reception window, brightly lit from within, and Baird shuffled over to the nurse who sat there. Maybe thirty, dressed in blue scrubs, she was a small, thin woman, not bad looking overall but with lank, greasy blond hair, a sallow complexion, and dark bags beneath large green eyes. For that, she smiled sweetly enough as he approached, and rose from her chair. Can I help you? Uh, yeah, Baird nodded, hugging himself against the chills. You could say that. I think I might have pneumonia. See, I havent felt too good for, oh about a week, chills and achy and congested, you know? Like a bad chest cold. But then, like last night or the day before, I started coughing up blood. Oh dear! said the nurse. That doesnt sound good! No. Well, dont worry, she said, handing him a clipboard and a pen. Just fill this out and then well take your vitals. Then the doctor will see you and well see what we can do to get you feeling better! Oh, and if you have an insurance card? Mister William Baird, he said. Bill. The nurse smiled again. My name is Allie. Baird nodded and took out his wallet and his flimsy, creased insurance card, handed it over, and then, taking the clipboard, went over to a couch to sit down. Blearily, his vision swimming a bit, he filled out the form, skipping most of it because hed never really been sick before in his entire 42 years, before coming up short on the Next of Kin section. For a long moment he hesitated and then wrote Jeff Edelman, Diversified Fertilizers, and the number of the home office. It was the best he could do. Returning to the window, the nurse took the clipboard from him and then, coming out of the admitting station, showed him down a hallway and into an exam room. He dropped his bags in a corner and then, as the nurse had told him to, undressed and put on the thin flannel backwards gown shed left for him. It seemed very cold, sitting on the raised exam table on a paper cover over cracked naugahyde, and the exam room--dingy linoleum floor, faded brown walls, with a hard plastic chair and built-in table-was just as chilly and uninspiring. Baird shook his head in vague disgust and shivered. After a few minutes the nurse, Allie, came back and took his blood pressure, pulse, and

temperature. Two of the three were perfectly normal, but the third, his temp, was far less encouraging. One oh two point five, said the nurse. Baird groaned. Really? he said. Thats not good, is it? I mean, thats pretty high, right? Allie nodded gravely. What about pain? she asked. Is it painful to cough? Oh yeah, he said. Sometimes its more like agony. And have you been coughing anything up? Yeah, lots. Specially at night. And recently? Like I said, its had blood in it. Plus, it tastes bad. Like real bad. Taking notes on the clipboard, Allie nodded. What about chills? Body aches? Yup, Baird said, shivering as if on cue. Both. They come and go, but always kind of achy. She had a few more questions, things about his family medical history and other particulars about his symptoms, before finally making him a little more comfortable with some blankets and a pillow. Next she tied off his right arm and drew some blood and then, after a couple of tries that were not altogether painless, stuck an IV needle into the back of his hand. Well just get you started on some saline here, she said, hanging a bag of clear liquid. And would you like something for the pain? Yes, please, said Baird feelingly. Now, on a scale of one to ten, ten being the most intense and one being the least intense, what would you say is your level of pain right now? Baird frowned and thought about it. I dont know, he finally said. About an eight, I guess. Um hmm, she said, making a note. OK, then, well give you something for that and then the doctor will be in to see you. OK? Baird nodded. Sounds good. After injecting something into the IV line, the nurse left, closing the door behind her, and a deep silence, broken only by his own ragged breathing, descended on the room. Baird shivered under the blankets and waited, feeling very low indeed. The fact was that, ill as he felt, he was even more afraid. Hed never been really sick before, nothing more than the flu, anyway, and had certainly never been hospitalized. What would they do with him? Or to him, more to the point? Tests and X-rays, certainly, CT scan, maybe, but what else? How long would he have to be here? And here, of all places, this forsaken, rundown county hospital in the middle of nowhere! Just his luck. A single, bitter tear came to his eye and he wiped it away angrily with the blanket and tried not to think about it. Anyway, he felt so rotten that it didnt really matter; at this point, hed like to either die or get better, as long as it was quick. Just get on with it. After about five minutes, though, a warm, soothing narcotic glow set in and, relaxing a bit, he closed his eyes and simply enjoyed the absence of a whole slew of pains that hed been dealing with on and off for a week. The feeling was so welcome and soothing and his anxiety faded so easily that he almost dozed off, but then there was a knock on the door and he sat up a little as the doctor came in. Tall, thin, and bald as an egg, scrubs and a spotless white lab coat baggy on a narrow frame, the doctor was a man of about fifty or sixty with small but sharp blue eyes, a long thin nose, and a wide, thinlipped mouth above a largish, well-defined and clean-shaven jaw. Sticking out his hand, he stepped over to the exam table and gave a lean smile. Hi there, Im Dr. Carver, he said. His grip was firm and his hand cool and dry. And unfortunately, it looks like you might be a fairly sick man. Can I call you Bill? Or do you prefer William? Bill, by all means, said Baird. So what do you think? Is it pneumonia? Well, well have to see, said the other. Taking out a stethoscope, he stuck the tips in his ears and then applied the other end to Bairds chest. Deep breaths, he said. Baird breathed and the doctor listened, front and back. Then the doctor checked his ears and throat and shone a light into his eyes. Up close, Baird noticed that he smelled very faintly of some kind of chemical, an acrid smell that somehow reminded him of high school chemistry. Hmm, said the doctor, slipping the penlight into the breast pocket of his lab coat. Well, youre

quite congested, and with the fever youre running, Id say pneumonia is a safe bet. But well take an xray, just to be sure, and then we can start you on some antibiotics. Baird nodded morosely. OK, he said. But uh, how long will it take? See, Im from out of town. Im a salesman, from Minneapolis. I have to get back he trailed off miserably. Dr. Carver smiled his thin smile and nodded. I understand, he said. But well have to wait for the x-ray to really tell. In general, though? If its not too bad, a course of oral antibiotics should take care of it. On the other hand, if the infection in your lungs is more severe, or if theres an abscess, we would want to use intravenous antibiotics, and that would take, oh, a few days at the least. He explained some more about what was actually going on in Bairds lungs and none of it sounded too great, but Baird was now very sleepy, warm, and comfortable and having a lot of trouble concentrating. In fact, he started nodding off as the man spoke. Well, you just rest, he heard the doctor say, before leaving. The nurse will be in to take you to x-ray and then to a bed. Ill be in to see you later. OK? Baird nodded and managed a small wave. Sure thing, he said. See you later. His trip to x-ray and then to his room was a drugged blur, just fuzzy images of hallways and doors and the big x-ray machine, and then he found himself in a railed, adjustable hospital bed. Fighting the drugs, just for curiositys sake, he looked around the room, but there wasnt a whole lot to see. Generic hospital in every way, his room had the bed, a bedside table, a rolling meal table, two hard plastic chairs, a narrow locker/closet type thing (containing his belongings, presumably), and his IV stand. Also a TV, again bolted to the wall, up near the ceiling, an old-style clock with hands (reading 10:35 at the moment), and behind the bed, an electronic panel with the rooms only light and an array of ports and plug-ins and buttons for who knew what kind of medical equipment. Other than that, he had a window, now pitch black, and a bathroom with a toilet and sink. Light green linoleum floor, paste white walls, green window blinds. The place had a sort of antiseptic smell, like pine cleaner, as well as another underlying odor he couldnt place, and all of the furnishings were scuffed and dingy. Even the paint on the rails of his bed was peeling. Having accomplished this survey of his surroundings, however desultorily, he lay back and stared at the ceiling, at a water stain directly above the bed. He was too drugged-up to really care about it, but still, the conditions and his place in them were not altogether encouraging. He was thinking about asking how to go about being transferred to another hospital when his eyes slowly slid shut and, despite a halfhearted effort at resistance, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. He awoke to someone saying his name and shaking his arm and for a long moment he was so disoriented that he almost tried to leap up and run away. Where was he? Why did his chest hurt so badly? Who was this person, dressed in some kind of green uniform? What the hell was going on? Just relax, now Bill, the person--a woman, short, fat, Asian, with thick glasses--told him, gently pushing him back onto the bed. Just lie back and take it easy, alright? What the-- Baird stammered, blinking. Then it hit him and he remembered what was what and where he was. Oh, yeah, he said, lying back. Thats right. OK Im Kim, said the nurse. Your nurse. I need to take your vitals. Oh, right, OK. Baird sat up and bared his arm for the blood pressure cuff and then took the proffered thermometer in his mouth. He saw that the clock read 12:45; had he really only been asleep for two hours? One oh two, said Kim, vis--vis his temp. Baird just nodded. And hows your pain? On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the most intense and one being the least intense, what would-- Nine, Baird interrupted. Definitely a nine. Kim nodded and frowned empathetically. OK, we can increase the dosage on your pain medication a little, so well do that. Is there anything else I can get you? A soda, maybe, or something to eat? Baird considered. Just some ice water would be great, he said. Im not hungry.

Kim nodded again, shot some more of something into his IV, and then went out for the water. She came back with a Styrofoam carafe and three Styrofoam cups, poured him a cup, and set the things on the rolling table. Baird gratefully took the water and had a good drink. Are you sure theres nothing else? asked Kim. Looking at her more closely, Baird saw that she was middle-aged, greasy about the face, and not at all what anyone would call attractive. In fact, now that he really looked, she was downright ugly. The thick brown frames of her thick, smeared glasses dominated her thick face, but the rest of it didnt help; fat, livery lips, a crooked, bulbous nose, bad bucked teeth, and pocked, blemish-spotted skin completed the train wreck. Baird blinked at her and shivered, and not from the chills, but Kim didnt seem to notice. He gave a sort of dismissive mental shrug of pity for the poor woman and pointed at the locker/closet. Could you bring me my bag? he asked. The smaller one. Of course, she said, waddling over there. She held up his satchel. This one? Baird nodded and she brought it over. Nurse Kim then took her leave of him, just as the fresh dose of drugs began to kick in. He lay there for a while, clutching his satchel, before the worst of a headrush wave of disorientation and numbness passed and he was finally able to fumble open the bag. For a long time, reaching around in the satchel, he was confused and just kept reaching. Now where was that stupid phone? Always sliding into a crack, hiding in a pleat or a fold But then he noticed something else: The whole bag felt light and the heft and bulk of his computer were conspicuously in absence. Finally, a lump rising in his throat, he just unzipped all of the pockets, upended the satchel, and dumped the contents onto the bed. Notepads, sell sheets, pens and promotional buttons for Diversified, his shaving kit and toothbrush and a bunch of other little things, but no phone, no computer, and, maybe worst of all, no car keys. And he recalled distinctly putting them in the side pocket. Gone, all three vital items, just plain not there. Suddenly the drugs were no longer soothing and comfortable and he fought their torpor, aided in no small part by a rising tide of unease, bordering on fear. What had happened to his things? After a moments hesitation, he grabbed the gizmo, attached by a thick cord to the wall, that served as a TV remote and call button for the nurses, and hit the help pad. He waited, going through each satchel pocket, just to be sure, before there was finally a knock on the door and nurse Kim came in. Is anything the matter? she asked. Do you need help? My stuff, said Baird, his tongue as thick and unresponsive as his drug-addled brain. My phone and my computer. My cars keys. Theyre gone. Oh? said Kim innocently. Well, I dont think so You what? Dont think so? Well, they are. Theyre gone and somebody mustve taken them. Somebody here, in this hospital. And I want em back. I have to have my phone and my computer. Not to mention my car! Well, of course, said Kim, nodding. But Im afraid thats just not the case. No one here would take your personal belongings. Are are you sure you came in with those things? Baird shook his head and scowled in confused frustration. What the hell was going on here? He sighed and looked at nurse Kim. Now look, he said crossly. I dont know what kind of game youre playing here, but heres the facts: When I came in here, not three hours ago, I had, in this satchel, right here, a phone, a computer, and a ring of keys. And now theyre gone. And I want em back. Like immediately. Now, do I have to call the police, or what? Kims eyes widened fractionally behind the thick lenses and she shook her head. Oh no, of course not, she said reasonably. Im sure its just some sort of mistake, some mix-up. But, on the other hand What? What other hand? Well, its just that the hospital is not, you know, liable for any personal items that are stolen. Its part of the release, the one you signed when you were admitted. But Baird struggled, what if one of you stole em? I mean, no offense, and OK, so maybe

you personally didnt swipe em, but what if one of your coworkers, one of the other nurses, or an orderly, or something, what if one of them made off with my stuff? The hospital would be liable for that, wouldnt they? A hard kind of look had come to Nurse Kims trash dump of a face and her eyes narrowed. I assure you, she said frostily, that no employee of the hospital has stolen anything from you, Mr. Baird. Uh huh, he said and sighed again. OK, look Im sorry. I didnt mean to, whatever, accuse anybody, OK? But I dont really even care who stole my things. I just want em back. So look, is there somebody in charge here? The boss? The hospital director is Mr. Skaeff, Kim said. But of course hes not here now. Of course, Baird said. When will he be? In the morning, at nine, said the nurse. And Im sure hed be happy to discuss the matter with you. For right now, though, you should really try to rest and get some sleep. Youre a very ill man, after all. Baird stared disconsolately at the stain on the ceiling for a little while before shrugging and shaking his head. Well, OK, he said. I guess Ill just have to wait till morning. But seriously, I have to have that stuff! I mean, how would you feel? Well, dont worry, she said, misshapen features softening a little. Im sure its just some mixup. Now just lie back and relax, alright? Baird sighed deeply and shrugged again. Yeah, OK, he said hopelessly. Not like I have anything else to do Nodding solicitously, Kim checked a few things on the rolling cart she used to tote around all the tools of the nursing trade and then, selecting a syringe, came over and injected something into his IV. He was going to ask her what it was, but then it was too late and besides, low as he left, he didnt really give a rats ass. Likely just more pain medicine, antibiotics or whatever. Shoving his other things back into the satchel, he set it on the floor and then lay back in bed. For a while he just lay there in shock, his mind repeating over and over that hed somehow lost just about every connection to the world outside of this hospital. A sudden thought occurred and he cast about, looking at the table by his head, but there was no phone there. He frowned, certain that hospital rooms generally had phones, but then again, it was hard to think all of a sudden, even harder than it had been, and then, alarmingly, the world sort of spun and twisted around itself. His eyelids became cement, his neck was warm rubber, and then his vision dimmed, narrowed, blinked out, and he fell headlong into a deep, black, insensate abyss. It was so hard to fight that for the longest time he didnt bother to try. Just floated there and faded in and faded out. People came and went. From time to time someone poked him with something sharp and squeezed his upper arm. Disjointed flares of pain like blossoms of red in the whiteness of oblivion. They stuck something into his mouth and down his nose. He heard voices sometimes, but they were muffled and sounded like they were coming from very far away and even the words he could make out didnt make sense. Finally, after who knew how long, he tried to open his eyes, but his best effort revealed only brightness and the fuzzy edges of the bed rails and the furnishings and he soon gave up and faded out again. Time became irrelevant and he floated, in and out, up and down, for what seemed like forever. When he finally came to, very much like a swimmer clawing his way to the surface, he was still drugged, quite heavily, but at least not quite as heavily, and he was able to open his eyes, shift around in bed, and generally survey himself and his surroundings. It was the same room, same bed and same ugly linoleum floor, ugly curtains It was night; outside it was dark, with a bright half moon shining down on a forest of black pines. The clock on the wall read 2:35. Physically, he was somewhat hard put to assess his condition. His chest hurt, and he still had the chills and all of his joints ached and his lungs still felt like they were full of rotten oatmeal, but then the drugs muted these sensations so effectively that he couldnt tell how bad it really was. Certain things,

however, told him that they were bad enough. For one thing, he had a urinary catheter and for another, there were two clear tubes, about as thick as his pinkie, running from his back, over the side of the bed, and into some kind of machine that made an incessant bubbling, gurgling noise. The tubes were half-filled with blood and some kind of dark yellowish fluid. Add in two IV lines and the usual pulse-rate doohickey on his finger, and he was as wired-up and tubed-out as an old radio. Of course, all of this would have been a damned sight more bearable if he had some idea what the hell had happened. First theyd made off with his phone, computer, and keys; what had they done now? Confused as can be and as angry as the drugs allowed for (which, honestly, wasnt all that much), he shifted onto his side so that the drain tubes didnt dig into his back so badly and shivered in a fresh bout of chills. He was just lying there, curled into a ball and feeling generally quite miserable, when the door opened and a pair of figures appeared and came in. First was a nurse with her cart, a smallish woman with short spiky hair and thin, pinched features. The other was the doctor, Carver, tall, thin and bald, angular in a crisp new lab coat. Well were awake, I see, said Carver. Good, good. Baird tried to speak but his mouth was as dry as an AA meeting and only a rough gurgle came out. He coughed and hawked up some very nasty gunk, spitting into a hastily-grabbed tissue, and then shakily had a drink of water from the ubiquitous foam cup. Finally he tried again. What happened? he rasped. Whatd you do to me? Well, Im afraid it was a near thing, said the doctor sadly. You had a pneumothorax, a collapsed lung, and you were delirious from the fever. The only real option open to us was to place you in a medically induced coma. A what? Baird goggled. A coma? Christ, how long was I out?! Carver paused and then spoke softly. Eight days. No way, said Baird, shaking his head. Are you kidding me? Eight days? A coma? The doctor nodded slowly. Sometimes its the only thing we can do, you see. And the up side, of course, is that weve been able to administer antibiotics and other treatment that should put you back on your way to recovery. Then why, asked Baird, letting his head fall back onto the pillow, do I still feel like crap? Hell, I feel worse than when I came here! And, and what about my stuff? Huh? Your stuff? said Carver absently, making notes on Bairds chart. I dont--- My phone, Baird said woefully, feeling like he might cry. My computer and my car keys. Before this, pneumo-whatever happened, before you coma-ized me, I was looking for my stuff and it was gone and the nurse said I should talk to somebody about it and he fizzled out, hearing the half-crazed, drug-fuzzy desperation in his voice, and stared at the stain on the ceiling. Getting a grip on himself, he tried again. Someone stole my phone, my computer, and my keys. I mean, I know Im in rough shape here and all, and it might seem like the least of my worries, but still I was supposed to ask this director guy, I forget his name, ask him about it. Yes, well, sniffed Carver, peering down his thin nose. Im sure that will all be cleared up, one way or another. The important thing is to get you feeling better! Now, what we did was procedure called a Thorectomy, in which we made a small incision into your back and into the lung itself. Some of the pain youre experiencing is no doubt from this. In addition-- Baird held up a hand and interrupted. Hold on just a second, he said. Yes? said the doctor patiently. You did all this stuff, this procedure, said Baird. But I thought you had to have like, you know, consent for things like that. Dont I have to, whatever, sign off on it or something? Well, as a matter of fact, said Carver, you did sign the consent forms. I have them right here. Huh? I dont remember that! Baird frowned. Let me see. The doctor turned the folder around to show him and sure enough, there was his signature. It was scrawled there, like it had been done by a five year old or a drunk and even ran off the bottom of the page at the end, but there was no denying that it was both his name and his signature. His B for one thing

was unmistakable But how? He didnt remember a thing between finding his stuff missing and waking up just now. Could he have just blacked it out? Apparently so; there was his signature to prove it. With a helpless sigh, he looked away and lay back in bed. The doctor went right back to telling him all about this procedure and that treatment, but Baird was having a hard time listening. The gist of it seemed to be that they had surgically gone into his lungs and more or less scooped out all of the nasty infected gunk. Then theyd stuck a tube into each lung and kept the drainage going, all the while pumping him full of antibiotics and assorted other fluids, including a liquid diet. This had gone well enough, apparently, that they had finally been able to bring him out of the coma and back to at least eating and drinking for himself. So, asked Baird, once the doctor had wound down, how much longer? If this procedure went so well, when can I get out of here? Oh, not for a few days, Carver said. At the least. You see, we have to drain the fluid out of your lungs and then make sure that the antibiotics are doing their job. Even at that, youll need to do outpatient treatments for IV antibiotics, and that could, depending on how you respond, take up to another month. A month? Baird echoed incredulously. Youre kidding! Im afraid not, said Carver gravely. But as I said, the IV antibiotics can be administered on an out-patient or even home-care basis. Meaning what? It would involve, the doctor said, inserting an IV into your upper arm, what we call a PICC line, that would be in place as long as needed and through which the antibiotics would be delivered. Baird frowned. Dont know about that he said. Sounds pretty harsh. Cant you do the same thing just with a shot, like a big dose of penicillin or something? Or what about pills, like oral medicine? No, said Carver, shaking his head slightly. Neither of those would be effective. You see, you have a bacterial infection, and only one or two very strong antibiotics will do any good in fighting it. Baird had more questions, of course, and Dr. Carver answered all of them, if not patiently at least indulgently, but after a while Baird knew that he was repeating himself, going over the same issues and spinning his wheels, and finally gave up. It was all Greek to him, anyway; what the hell did he know about medicine? Hell, he sometimes had a hard time with band-aids! Finally Carver patted him on the arm and gave his thin smile. Dont you worry, Bill, he said. Well have you up and around in no time. And meanwhile, you just rest and get some fluids and food. Alright? Baird nodded woodenly. Yeah, OK, he said. But my things, my phone and my keys-- Will turn up, Im sure, said the other, going to the door. Dont worry. A final thought occurred and Baird stopped the doctor just before the man left. What about next of kin? he asked. Did you call the number I put down? Of course, said the other soothingly. They know all about it. And as soon as youre well enough, you can call them or have visitors. Now please, get some rest. Letting his impossibly heavy head fall back onto the pillows, he nodded a little. I think I can manage that. The next few days all sort of ran together. There was a regularity about it, in that every two hours a nurse came for his vitals and at six AM, noon, and six PM he got meals (of a sort; soggy, lukewarm mush would be more like it), but other than that he was on his own and time began to go fuzzy around the edges. Confined by the IV lines and the tubes from his back to the confines of the bed, he was reduced to watching TV, staring out the window at the nearby pine woods, and trying to read the dated magazines theyd provided. Mostly, though, he nodded. Half asleep, half awake and wholly drugged-up, he faded in and out of consciousness constantly, whether it was day or night, sometimes for a few minutes, sometimes for an hour or more. After a couple of days, existence itself began to blur. Hed met with the hospital director at one point, a rotund, unctuous individual with a bad comb-

over and a cheap suit named Skaeff, but the man had been no help at all. They had searched the hospital and questioned the staff, but there was no sign of his missing things and the local police, In the form of the county sheriff, had likewise come up with nothing. Skaeff had explained how it was unfortunate, but that someone must have slipped in somehow and stolen them. They had no video surveillance and no one had seen anyone suspicious, but nonetheless, it seemed the most likely explanation. Baird had fumed about this, but again, the drugs dulled everything so completely that even this ill fortune seemed more or less inconsequential; who cares, youll get a new phone, a new computer. If it hadnt also been stolen, they could make new keys for the car and if it had been, insurance would cover it. So why worry? And then down hed gone, into the narcotic nod again. It was on his twelfth (or maybe thirteenth) day in County General that he finally began to shake off the cobwebs and start to see through the haze, mainly because they cut down on the meds and then got him up from bed and made him walk around the hallways. It was very hard at first, painful and totally draining, and Baird had moaned and been downright surly with the nurses and their aides, but after another couple of days he began to almost look forward to it. Pushing his IV stand, bubbler machine attached, he shuffled along in the paper-thin slippers theyd given him, up and down the silent hallways. At least he was up and doing something. Hed gotten to know most of the staff, mainly because there just werent that many people who worked there, but mainly he interacted with the nurses. Of these, there were by his count eight: Six were on a full-time, week-day schedule, while the other two were weekends only. There was also a Head Nurse, someone named Judy who the nurses sometimes mentioned but whom hed never seen. There may have been more to this staff as well, but in the narco-fog he got them mixed up sometimes. Of course, there was the whole support side of his care as well, and that meant nurses aides, orderlies, and janitorial workers. Of these, Baird had come to recognize most of the orderlies and all of the NAs, but the cleaners all sort of seemed the same to him and may have been either one man or two or more who looked a lot alike. Again, the fog. As far as doctors went, he knew that there were at least two others who worked there, having seen them in the hallways, but so far the only one hed met was Carver. In general, they were kind enough to him and as gentle as possible in their sometimes painful ministrations, but all in all, he got the impression that outside of work they were a fairly scummy, if not downright nasty bunch. Maybe it was just some regional, rural thing, a way of life he just didnt understand, but that was how he came to think of them. Because when they thought he was asleep they sometimes spoke candidly with each other and, of the parts that made sense, none of it was very nice; drugs, booze, sex, and gambling seemed their main topics of conversation, and even the doctors chuckled at their incredibly crass stories and jokes. Whether nurse or orderly, when he thought of the things they said, what they did with their spare time and what theyd like to do with it, he shuddered and quickly thought of something else. Must just be that rural, hillbilly type thing. Yeah, maybe From the first day of walking the halls, hed noticed that the hospital was sparsely patronized. In fact, other than a farmer who came in one day for some stitches for a bad cut, he was the only patient. There were ten rooms, all ready for business, but none but his was in use. Hed asked about this, but the nurses and aides and orderlies had all shrugged and said that it was just slow; always got quiet in the fall and winter, then busy as can be in summer. Just slow was all. Mercifully, theyd removed his catheter and let him use the bathroom on his own, but this was a mixed blessing; for one thing, it stung like crazy the first time he went, and for another, he was able to look at himself in a mirror. And the man he saw in the mirror was no picnic. Haggard, thin, with dark circles under his eyes, unshaven and hollow-cheeked, this man looked bad, like hed escaped from a prison camp or--appropriately enough--a hospital. Maybe it was himself that he was looking at, but then again, it was easy enough in the fog to persuade himself that it was some other poor, sick bastard. After that, he didnt look at himself in the mirror too much. On the fifteenth (or sixteenth) day, he finally made an issue of using the phone. Theyd put him off repeatedly , citing this or that excuse--mainly that he wasnt well enough, which didnt make much sense--but after one too many lame put-offs, he put his foot down. Figuratively, at least. Demanding to see

Mr. Skaeff again, hed complained about it, in a rambling, dopey way, and had been ultimately rewarded with the assurance that a phone would be brought to his room that day. Satisfied, Baird had smiled to himself, flipped on the TV, and then promptly nodded off. Again. But they never brought the phone. He woke up, over and over again, but still no phone. Finally he asked the nurse. By chance, it was Allie, the one whod admitted him. A phone? she said. I dont know anything about-- OK, thats it, snapped Baird, cutting her off. That is it. I have had it with you yo-yos! I want a phone, and I want one now! Hear me? So just go get me one, alright? I even talked to the director, Skaeff, and he said I would have one today. Not tomorrow, today! I mean, come on! How hard is it, for shits sake? Just go. Get. Me. A phone. Cellular, landline, hell Id settle for two cans and a string! But Nurse Allie just nodded and smiled the horrible indulgent smile they all used when he got angry with them. Then, even before hed finished, she backed out of the door. Left to fume (and nod off some more), Baird waited until Dr. Carver, looking tall and sharp as always, finally came striding in. Now, Bill, whats all this fuss? he asked preemptively, soothing and calm as ever. A man in your condition-- Needs to use the damn phone, Baird said over him. I mean, what is the big deal about this? I need to call home. My boss, my co-workers, theyll be worried, not to mention I could lose my job! Plus, I have to call my insurance agent, thanks to whoever swiped my stuff. So whats the problem? Why wont you let me have a phone? Its weird, I tell ya! If not downright criminal! Carver nodded appreciatively. What about family? Wouldnt they be worried as well? Dont have any, said Baird. Not even a dog. But thats beside the point! The point is, I want to use the phone! Carver nodded again, but the usual thin smile had faded like a wilting flower and now a hard cast came to his keen features. Baird blinked at the man, trying to figure out what new eddy this was in the narco-fog, but no, the man was no longer smiling or nodding. In fact, he looked almost sinister, staring at Baird in a decidedly intense and altogether un-doctorly way. He stopped peering at Baird long enough to catch the nurses eye and nod to her and then looked back to Baird. You dont need a phone, said the doctor softly, smiling. Or anything else, for that matter. Baird shook his head and frowned. What? What does that mean? Anything else? Oh, nothing, said Carver musingly. The nurse had moved to the IV stand, a syringe in hand, and now, at a nod from Carver, stuck it into his line and hit the plunger. Carver smiled at Baird, actually showing teeth--big, yellowish teeth--and then turned to go. See you soon, Bill, he said over his shoulder. See you soon Baird was flummoxed, wondering what in hell this all meant, when whatever the nurse had given him hit like a freight train. Before he could even remark on it or even really notice, whatever it was shuttered his senses and shut down his brain and within ten seconds, out like a light, he was stone cold unconscious. Clawing his way back to the surface this time, Bairds first sensation was cold. His feet and hands were almost numb and his skin was goose-bumped and shivering. It felt like he was in a deep freeze and the parts of his body in contact with whatever he was lying on cringed from the chill touch of stainless steel. There was a persistant beeping noise and the constant burble of the chest-tube machine, but nothing else to hear. With a great effort, he forced his eyelids to open, but the view was so blurry and disjointed that he let them slide shut again. For a while he just lay there and took a kind of physical inventory. Still hooked up to the bubbler and the IVs with the old pneumonia symptoms--stabbing chest pains, chills, etc.--all still very much in evidence. And something new, oddly enough, another pain, this one just beneath his ribs on the right side. Gingerly, he felt of it and then his fingers recoiled at the feel of a thick gauze dressing. Some new procedure, he thought vaguely. Theyd done it again and cut into him. But why and what had they done this time? But it was almost impossible to think and he let it slip. Have to ask them about that Finally he tried again and this time the view from inside his own skull was better. Not that what

he saw was any relief or in any way reassuring, but at least it was in focus. He was on a metal table in what looked like an operating room. There were big round lights on complicated swing-arms, various medical machines and monitors, and counters and rolling tables of shiny stainless steel sporting lots of little tools and connected gizmos. He was wearing nothing but the thin hospital gown, open in the back, which explained why he was so cold, but nothing explained where he was, why he was there, or why hed been left there alone. He tried to call out, maybe for help, but his throat was sore and dry and all that came out was a raspy gurgle. He cleared his throat and tried again, but the sound of his own voice was so hoarse and thick that he didnt try twice. With some trepidation, he raised the gown and looked down at the fresh bandage. Showing a little red, it was a regular gauze pad about three inches square, held in place by white tape. He thought about lifting the tape for a look, but then thought again and left it alone. Gently, he ran his fingers over it, but all that told him was that there was a wound of some sort under there, maybe an inscision, and not much else; it hurt, but between the drugs and the thick dressing, the pain was tolerable. Getting colder and shivering even harder, feeling as if he might be having some sort of convulsion, he was about to try to get to his feet--better to at least try than just lay there--but then one of the rooms two doors swung open and people, three of them, came into the room. Screwing up his eyes, Baird peered at the gowned, masked trio and shivered. What he tried, but then choked, coughed, and tried again. What is this? he managed. What are you doing? The trio came over to the table. One of them was obviously Dr. Carver; even with the mask, his thin features and small, cruel eyes left no doubt. The other two were nurses, both women, but beyond that he couldnt name them and didnt much care to at the moment, anyway. Ignoring him, they surrounded the table. The doctor spat out some orders and the nurses hopped to, and mercifully the first thing ordered were some warm blankets. After that came this and that injection into his IV tube, followed by the doctor doing his usual thing with stethescope and penlight. Baird lay there, simply glad not to be so cold anymore. When the doctor had finished looking him over, he looked up at the masked face. Whats going on here? he rasped. What are you doing to me? Carver reached up and pulled off his mask. He smiled down at Baird and then patted him on the arm. There, there, he said, for all the world like he actually meant it, dont you worry a bit. Youre going to be just fine. Struggling against the drugs, the sheer unreality of the situation, and a rising current of fear, Baird shook his head as best he could and glared back up at Carver. What the hell are you doing to me? he croaked. I came in here with pneumonia for Gods sake! And I have a right to know about everything you do to me. Im pretty sure thats a law, OK? I mean, you cant just go carving a guy up and-- But he was talking to himself. The doctor and the two nurses, ignoring him completely, had shed their gowns and masks while he was talking and simply walked out. Baird gave an angry grunt and huddled into himself. Confused and afraid and zonked out of his head on whatever narco cocktail theyd given him, he could only lie there and shiver and wait and wonder. What the hell? When the orderlies came and bundled him off into the next room, a regular hospital patients room, he tried some more: He told them how much trouble they were in, how theyd all lose their jobs after he sued the hospital for all it was worth, how they would all, in fact, be going to jail and even that they were all a bunch of sadistic, freaky assholes, but none of it provoked so much as a frown. Firmly but not roughly, they put him into the bed, arranged the tubes and machines and whatnot, saw to his bodily functions, and even brought him a nice cold can of Sprite and a cup full of ice. But if they heard a word of his garbled, raspy threats, there was absolutely no sign; it was if he was speaking Chinese. When they finally left, having made him as comfortable as possible, given his beat-up condition, he lay there for some time, trying to piece together what was happening to him. But there were no answers, only more questions, and the questions only made him more afraid and so he finally gave up and

let the drugs wash over him. After a few minutes, he reached over, took the Styrofoam cup of soda, and greedily, gratefully, drank off the whole thing. It tasted wonderful, like the best soda hed ever had. The next few days were an angry, drug-addled blur. He tried, over and over, to talk to the people who came and went, seeing to his needs, taking his vital signs and examining him in one way or another, but it was just no use. They ignored every threat, every question, every word, as if they were all stone deaf. It was infuriating. And there were always the drugs. Or maybe just one drug; he had no clue what they were incessantly injecting into him. Whatever it was, it robbed him of all but the most basic of motor skills, fogged up his brain like he was half asleep all the time, and left him in a constant limbo of nodding in and out of reality. And no matter how hard he fought, they always won. He fought the nurses and orderlies, too, as best he could. One day he finally just tried to get up, get dressed, and go. It had seemed like a good idea at the time; why not just leave? He wasnt a prisoner here, he was a patient. He should be able to walk out any time he felt like it, doctors orders or not. And so he tried, only to be gently but firmly restrained by a nurse and two hefty orderlies and placed back in bed. Hed even tried hitting one of them, a fat orderly named Benson, but he was so weak and the blow was so feeble that the man had just laughed and tightened his grip on Baird a little. Back in his bed, hed lain there, shivering terribly and sweating from the exertion and the pain. Then Benson, whod briefly left, had come back into the room and up to Baird. In his hands hed held a set of thick black nylon belts with padded Velcro cuffs. Restraints. The fat orderly had held them up at Bairds eye level and Baird had shaken his head, vehemently. No, please, hed said weakly. You dont need those. I, uh, Im good. I wont do that again. OK? Benson had just smiled, lowered the restraints, turned, and left. And that was the end of that idea, at least for the time being. No more trying to fight with the staff. There was one thing especially, out of all of the things he had to fear, that hed come to realize might be the worst of his troubles, and that was his present location. Hed been moved at some point from the dismal room hed been in to some sort of private, locked set of rooms. There were three, all connected, that hed seen so far, the operating room where hed woken up, the regular hospital room he was now lying in, with a full bathroom attached, and an adjacent lab of some kind, with microscopes and fancylooking machines and computers. This last chamber was also off-limits to Baird, kept locked, but hed seen past Carver when the man had entered and exited the place and from these glimpses decided on its purpose. Like the other rooms here, and in stark contrast to the run-down, gloomy hospital hed experienced before, the lab was sparkling clean, brightly lit, and looked brand new. Hed also noticed that there were no windows; likely he was either in an interior space on an upper floor or underground, in a basement. Of course, in and of themselves, the rooms werent in any way frightening. What was frightening was the fact that he was locked in. He tried many times and at odd hours, but the door that led out--to the rest of the hospital, presumably--was always kept locked. Hed asked the staff about this, of course--often and sometimes not at all nicely--but as always, they didnt even acknowledge that hed opened his mouth. He briefly contemplated ambushing someone, attacking whomever with a chair or something, but then thought better of it. For one thing they probably had a camera on him; there were several odd doodads set into the ceiling that he couldnt identify. For another thing, he was still weak as a newborn, barely able to walk, let alone assault somebody. Even if he got lucky and it was one of the skinnier, smaller nurses, he doubted anything he could do would cause any serious damage. And besides, even if he managed to take out one of them, there were ten or a dozen more beyond. No, like straight-up fighting with them, ambushing them was, at least for now, obviously not the thing to do. So he more or less just waited, nodding in and out, eating bland but not-that-bad meals, trying to read the paperback novels they left for him, and threatening the staff pretty much whenever they came into the room. Not wanting to get strapped to the bed, he left the IVs alone and didnt mess with any of

his bandages. He rolled over and coughed and opened his mouth for the thermometers and did everything they told him to. But he almost never did so without telling whoever was there that they were in big trouble for keeping him there against his will. At least for the first few days, anyway He seemed to be getting better, at least. His chest hurt a little less every day, the coughing wasnt so bad, the stuff he hacked up was no longer so vile-tasting, and they even removed the chest tubes and their bubbling machines. But still, they kept him drugged to the gills; most of the time he was hard put to even tell whether he was in fact awake or in opiate La-La Land. It wasnt much fun, all in all, and if he hadnt been so constantly afraid of his situation--locked up in a back-woods hospital, sick and wounded, baffled and isolated--his worst problem would have been boredom. As it was, he waited and wondered in no small amount of what he could only call dread. Drugmuted, almost nebulous, perhaps, but a profound dread all the same. And so the days slid past as, deprived of a clock or even a window, Baird strayed into a kind of limbo in time. Had he just nodded off for ten minutes or had it been three hours? Meal times, like the regular check of his vital signs, still helped a little, in that they served to mark at least the passage of time, but the food itself was no help; with things like soups, sandwiches, hamburgers, and pizza, they all seemed like lunch. Only their regular appearance, like the nurses visits, told him that time was passing at all, and after God knew how long, he finally gave up on trying to figure out what day it was or how long hed been there. He just waited, ate the food, nodded in and out of a drug stupor, and tried to hope that he wasnt in the very bad spot that it seemed. One day (or night--hed long since given up by that point) he was just lying there, staring at the wall and wondering if they would ever let him go, when he noticed something. Hed gone over the room, bathroom included, with careful if bleary attention, looking for anything at all that could help him escape, and had found nothing of interest. But this was something hed missed, a small bump in the mortar between two of the bricks that made up one wall of his room. Desultorily, he squinted at the little bump, thinking that it was surely nothing, a flaw, a bubble in the mortar. After a while, though, he gave a slight shrug, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, gathered his IV tube and stand, and shuffled the few feet to the wall. Bending down (an effort that cost him a decent but blessedly brief pang of white-hot pain through his upper abdomen), he peered at the bump and then reached out and scratched at it with the nail of his forefinger. To his surprise, something came loose from the mortar, the bump fell off altogether, and a very small hole, maybe as wide as a pencil, was revealed. What was more, there was something--paper, maybe--rolled up and stuffed into the hole. For a long moment he froze, unsure of what to do. Then, shielding the area with his body from the eyes of the suspected cameras in the ceiling, he carefully picked at the tiny rolled-up thing, drew it free, and quickly stuck it into the pocket of his hospital pajama bottoms. Excited (and excited at just being excited, after the long hours and days of drug fog), he went into the bathroom, where he hoped there were no cameras, and took the thing from his pocket. Carefully, clumsily, he rolled it over in his hands and saw that it was a napkin, white with a pebbled texture, that had been folded, re-folded, and rolled into a very tight little tube. Frowning, he gently pulled at one edge of the cylinder, where a corner showed, and slowly unfurled the thing. As he did, it revealed words; hand-written in pencil, smeared and very tightly packed, but definitely words. Squinting at the tiny letters, his feet freezing on the cold bathroom tile and his hands beginning to shake, he read these words. And when he was done, he was no longer excited; terrified would be more like it. My name is Harvey Deweer, I am 52 years old, and I am a prisoner in this place called County General Hospital of Pine Falls, Minnesota. The year is 1992 and Im pretty sure its March, but as for the date or the day of the week, I lost count a long time ago. I have no idea if anyone will ever read this, but if you are, then it means that the bastards here have won. And I am probably dead. Really, theres probably no point in even writing this, but it passes the time and if it results in just one person knowing what Ive been through at the hands of these so-called doctors

and nurses, then I guess its worth it. If it results in more, like say felony charges and jail time for Carver and his bunch? So much the better. Sorry about having to write on this napkin and I hope you can read what this says. OK, so where to start? As for me, theres not much to tell. Im single, never married. No close family, not too many friends, either. I work as a salesman for Best-Rite Shoes. Before all this happened, my enforced stay here, I used to think that I was kind of a loser. It would make me sad, you know? My life, that is. Like I was missing out on the whole family thing. It made me feel lonely. But now? Oh, brother, I had no idea how great I had it! Right now, I would give anything just to go back to my boring, loser existence. On the other hand, if I did have a family or close relatives, I wouldnt be in this situation. Carver only picks people like me. People who can go missing and not have too many people come looking for them. But its too late for that and theres no point in dwelling on it. Im stuck here and unless I can get out, Im going to die here, family or no family. Anyway, I came to be at County General because I managed to come down with the mother of all flu bugs. See, I was doing my sales route--the whole of northern Minnesota, from Bemidji on up--and one day I woke up in my motel room and thought I was going to die. Vomiting, diarrhea, chills and fever, the whole shebang. I needed a doctor, and the nearest one was here, of course. This rotten place, this house of horrors they call a hospital. At first it wasnt so bad. They checked me in, stuck me in a bed and made me comfortable as possible. Gave me IVs for fluids and such and stuff to lower my fever. I was glad of the care, too, and in a couple of days I was feeling lots better. And thats when things went bad. Of course, at the time I had no idea what was going on or what was happening to me. The drugs they gave me saw to that! But since then Ive had plenty of time to think about it and heres what I think happened: They drugged me, for starters, with some kind of stuff that knocked me out but good, and then they brought me here, down to the basement, into some kind of secret laboratory-type place. It has to be secret, because if anyone from the outside saw what Carver has down here and what he does, there would be Hell to pay for the hospital. And Im pretty sure its in a basement because there are no windows and it just somehow feels below ground. This next part is hard for me, because what Carver and his people did down here, what they did to me, is not an easy thing to think about. And I dont much feel like writing it down, either. But then, if youre reading this and youre not with them, theres a good chance that you already know what Im talking about. If you found this, then youre down here, down in Carvers secret lab, and you know what goes on. But then again, you might be a cop or an investigator of some sort, or just someone who stumbled on this, and now Im just stalling, so what the heck. Ill write it down. See, what Carver and his people did was to impregnate me. Yeah, I know, men cant get pregnant. Thats what I always thought, too! But thats what the bastard did. Its not a human child, of course, but that doesnt make me any less pregnant. The bulge in my guts just grows and grows and lately I can feel it moving. Sometime soon, maybe a week or ten days, its going to come out. When that happens, Im pretty sure it will kill me. How did he do this? How did he plant this disgusting thing in my belly? This thing that sends slimy little tentacles inside my spine and down the muscles in my legs? I dont know, not for sure anyway. I was out for the whole thing, totally unconscious, and the particulars of it are a great big blank. There was something like an operation, I suppose, because I woke up with a pain and some stitches in my left side, just below the ribs, so maybe that was when he did it. Again, I just dont know. At first, after I woke up from whatever it was theyd done, I was confined to the bed. Strapped in, actually. But after a few days they let me up and made me walk around the room and clean myself up. Naturally, I asked a whole lot of hard questions, but they wouldnt tell me a thing. Mostly they just said nothing, but even when they did talk it was just to tell me to do this or that and to tell me to relax and that everything would be just fine. The fuckers. God I hate them! Anyway, they let me move around and watch TV and read and whatnot. After a couple of weeks I was all healed from the surgery--what they always called a procedure--and feeling more or less fit and healthy. I started eating whatever they brought, hungry as a wolf in winter, and even started doing some

push-ups. And then I noticed the thing theyd stuck in me. Since then, I dont eat so much and I gave up on exercise. No point in making this any easier for them! It was a small lump at first, about baseball size, but it grew fast. After a month (or so--they wouldnt tell me what day it was) it was double that. Right now, as I write this, its about the size of a basketball. And it just squirmed. I hate when it does that. Like I said, the people here, Carver and his nurses and nurses aides and orderlies, they wouldnt tell me anything. There were a few times when they thought I was asleep, but the things they said didnt make any sense to me. Maybe it was just dreams, or maybe the drugs made me remember it funny, but it was all nonsense. Mostly they talked about someone they just called He. He would be pleased. He would be displeased. And most of all, He would soon return. I have no idea where from, much less who He was, but thats what they said. I also got the impression that what they did to me played some part in it all. Several times I heard them say that He would be pleased with my progress. They also talked about the Signs. These werent like road signs or like signs on doors, they seemed more like some kind of objects. Anyway, whatever they were, Carver and his people wanted them. Like these Signs could be collected somehow, gathered together. Like theyd been lost or separated or forgotten and now they would be retrieved. Of course, all of this might just be fantasy, something cooked up in my poor, drug-frazzled brain. But then again, who knows? These people were capable of doing what they did to me, and thats sure as hell real enough. Who knows what else theyre capable of and what kind of weird, evil things theyre into? So here I am. Some day soon, this nasty thing inside me is going to come out. It will be done growing and eating and sending its squirmy little tendril fingers into my brain, and it will leave my body. Of course, Ive thought a lot about this. When it happens, what will be the particulars? Will it burst out, like popping a great big cyst? Or will it find its way out through a bodily orifice? Either way, I cant say Im looking forward to it! Most of all though, I have to say that Im curious about what it is and what it will look like. Probably I wont even get to see it, but then who knows? It might be the last thing I do see. But something tells me that if I do, it wont be like anything normal or natural. No, pretty sure its some kind of monster. So there you have it, I guess. If youre reading this, please do what you can you to see that Carver and his whole bunch get whats coming to them. Im not crazy, believe me, and this is not a joke. These people are evil and what they did to me is a crime, not only against me but against Nature, too. They shouldnt get away with it! And if youre like me, if youre trapped there with a scar on your belly and something like a monster growing inside you, I can only say: God help you. God help me and God help you, because one things for sure: No one else is going to. I hereby swear that all I have said here is truthful and accurate to the best of my knowledge. Harvey S. Deweer Baird finished reading and then, like he was dropping a dead rat, let the smeared napkin fall from his fingers to the floor. For a while he just stared down at it, his mind reeling, before it occurred to him that hed been in the bathroom for quite a while; pretty soon, they would come in to see what he was doing. Reluctantly, he stooped down (with another sharp jab in his belly), picked up the napkin, folded it up, and put it back in his pajama pocket. He flushed the toilet and ran the tap in the sink, just for show, and then shuffled back out to his room and climbed back into bed. The drugs did their best to derail him, to suck him back down into narco-sleep and the old bemused, frightened apathy, but he fought it and, at least for a while, won the battle and spent the next hour or so turning over in his head the contents of what hed just read. Of course, this Harvey person must have been insane. For that matter, did he even know if there was such a person? Maybe this napkin letter had been planted there, by them, for whatever reason, maybe as some kind of test, to see how hed react. Maybe, or was that just paranoia? At any rate, if there was (or

had been) a real Harvey Deweer, he must have been a can short of a six-pack, because what he talked about, having some kind of thing growing in his belly, was patently impossible and therefore crazy. No doubt about it, and he should probably just toss the loony message in the toilet and forget all about it. But there were other things the writer talked about that made Baird not so sure. Dr. Carver was real enough, and he really was at County General. The rooms the writer described, with no windows and locks on the doors, those were real, too, and the mute nature of the staff seemed the same as well. In fact, aside from the crazy gibberish about something alive inside of him, the writer had more or less described Bairds own experience. Even their jobs and personal lives were similar. So what to think? Maybe it was a mix of the two. Maybe the guy had been a regular patient who was crazy and just thought he was a prisoner who had something growing in his belly. And maybe it was just plain nothing at all, a trick or some kind of prank. But it still made him think. After a couple of hours, though, the nurse came in, did her thing with the needles into his IV and, soon enough, he was lulled straight back into a nice long narcotic nod. The next time he woke up, hed actually forgotten all about the weird napkin message, but it came back to him after a few hours. He felt for it in his pajama pocket and there it was. He didnt take it out or even look at it, but just knowing that he hadnt dreamed or imagined it and that it was really there set him back to thinking. The parts of the note that kept coming up in his thoughts were the things about what the man had overheard when the staff had thought him asleep. The things about him and the signs and what, if anything that might mean. Because Baird had to admit, he thought hed heard exactly the same kind of talk from the staff. At the time hed written it off as drug-addled nonsense, just like Deweer himself, but now? Now he wasnt nearly so sure. But what could it mean? Who was he and what were these unexplained Signs they talked about? It didnt make sense, and Baird had the feeling that even if he was stone cold sober it wouldnt have been any better. In the end, he decided that he couldnt decide; even if the writer had not been insane, there just wasnt enough to go on. For that, though, it did give him an idea, one he tried out the very next time a nurse came in for his vitals. The nurse (by chance Kim, the incredibly homely Asian woman), was just turning to him with the blood pressure cuff when he took his shot. So he said slowly, I guess youre into Him, like the others, huh? You know: Him? Nurse Kim didnt flinch. She didnt turn pale or choke or give any really obvious sign that shed even heard what hed said. But she did pause in mid-stride, just for a second, before continuing to his bedside. So brief as to be almost imperceptible, but compared to her usual automata-style movements, a definite pause. As if in surprise. Satisfied for now, Baird let her do her job and then leave. His little experiment hadnt done anything toward easing his mind or allaying any fears--just the opposite, in fact--but hed learned something from it nonetheless: there just might be something to this Him nonsense after all. And that mere fact, the very idea of it, lent a validity to this Harvey Deweer persons strange napkin testament that made his blood run cold; if any part of it was real, what else might be? It was the next day, after repeated and utterly unsuccessful tries at rattling the staff with sly mentions of Him and the Signs (they were wise and no one batted an eye out of place), that he finally decided that, crazy or not, and against whatever long odds he faced, he had to get out of there. The latent, slow-motion alarm bells in his head, the ones that could cut through the narco-fog, told him that he had to escape. If he stayed, who knew what else these maniacs might do to him? But how? They had him locked in tight as a fishs asshole. And it was so hard to think But he tried, in between nods, and slowly a semblance of a plan formed in his poor, chemically-diminished mind. It wasnt a great plan, and likely he would end up strapped to the table rather than free, but, faced with very limited possibilities and even more limited resources, it was the best he could manage. So it was that, later that very day (or night), Baird was to be found hiding behind the door to his room with a lamp in his hand, waiting to bash the first human head to show itself. He was still weak; his

legs shook and he had to try hard to suppress a cough. But hed managed to get the IV tube out and into position with the lamp, and, so far, his plan was going well. Now, if they didnt notice him on their cameras or monitors (if there were any), maybe he was in business He waited some more, his bare feet going numb on the tile floor, but no one came. He was about to give up, feeling suddenly stupid and sheepish (and tired, sick, and cold), when there came a rattling at the door and he tensed and raised the lamp above his head. Now or never, he thought, gritting his teeth. It turned out to be an orderly, a short, heavy-set man named Larry, whose head got bashed. Baird waited until the right moment, just when Larry had realized something was wrong (but not what), and then brought the lamp down with all of his meager strength. The lamp, made of cheap ceramic and glass, shattered into a great many pieces, the shade going flying crazily across the room, and there was an odd noise like something crushing a pumpkin, punctuated by the tinkle and crash of falling glass. Larry, facing away from Baird, fell forward limply, arms at his side and face-first, onto the floor. The sound of his face impacting the hard tile, a wet crunch combined with a soggy belching groan, made Baird cringe and wince, but then he reminded himself of what these people had done and shrugged it off and got busy. With a glance, he saw that no one was in the hallway outside the door. Just a half-lit corridor and some doors, and suddenly he had a strong urge to just run. Run out of this door, out of this prison cell, and keep running until he was away from here, anywhere. Run! But he fought it back and stuck to his plan. Already woozy from the exertion, his vision a little furry around the edges, he bent down, grabbed Larrys ankles, and, since the man was still partly in the doorway, tried to drag the fat man further into the room. And he did, but the effort brought sweat to his brow, incredible stabbing pain to his injured side, and gorge to the back of his throat. Gasping raggedly and painfully, he had to go lie down, just for a moment. Just get your breathe, said something in his head. Just a little rest. But he stopped, almost to the bed, and angrily told the something in his head to shut the hell up. He had to do this now, all at once, or he didnt have a prayer. So ignore the pain, ignore that it feels like youre suffocating and maybe about to die. Stick to the plan. Going back to Larry, Baird kneeled down next to him and took the first and most important thing he needed from the man, a thick ring of keys on a lanyard with a metal fob reading CGH. Then he felt around in Larrys pockets and took the mans wallet and another set of keys, the mans personal set, complete with two marked Ford. Lastly, he took the tube of chemical mace from the small holster on Larrys belt. He was disappointed to not find a cell phone, but then again he wasnt about to complain; from this point, if he could just get to the parking lot, he was free! Hands shaking, stabs of pain in his side making him gasp and grunt, he next undid Larrys belt, untied his shoes, and proceeded to clumsily, roughly undress the fat man. It was hard, and it hurt like hell, but he managed to get the shoes and pants off. The shirt, however, was too much; hed have to roll Larry over to get that and, since the man had to go 250 at least, he had a better chance of tunneling out of there with a soup spoon. Hed just have to settle for his pajama top. Shaking all over now, wondering why if there were cameras in the ceiling he was being left alone to assault, rob, and strip Larry, he pulled on the pants, blue Dickies uniform slacks far too big for him, and then stuck his feet into the black, thick-soled work shoes. Between Larrys girth and his own emaciated state, he had to just tie the belt around his waist to keep the pants up; luckily, the shoes, once laced as tight as theyd go, stayed on more or less snugly. Out of utter necessity, he did allow himself a little rest, sitting on one of the plastic chairs for a few minutes, and then sighed, got up, and went to the door. The door was still unlocked from Larrys entrance, and Baird slowly pushed it open and peeked out. Same empty, vacuum-silent, partially-lit hallway and nothing else. Trying to tip-toe in the oversized work shoes (with little success), he stepped into the hallway and then started toward the other end. He passed four doors along the way, all unmarked except one that was labeled Utility, and then the hallway took a left turn and went along for maybe fifty yards more before ending in an elevator. Next to it on the wall was a single button. He hesitated. Would it be wise to use the elevator? He had no idea where it would open and who might be there when it did. It would be very easy to be trapped in there Shaking his head, he turned and went back to the doors hed passed. Stick to the plan.

The first one he came to, a sturdy wooden door with a shiny metal impact plate along the bottom third, just like most of the others, was locked. Moving on, he found that they were all locked expect for the one marked Utility, which was mostly empty aside from a mop and bucket, some cleaning products on a shelf, and a half-full garbage can. He stared at these things for a while, his brain sluggish, before finally reaching over and taking down a spray bottle. He unscrewed the top of this and smelled of the yellow liquid it held (ammonia cleaner) and then poured out the contents into the garbage can. Next he took down a big bottle of raw chlorine bleach and, careful not to spill it on himself, filled up the squirt bottle and then replaced the cap and nozzle and re-capped the bleach. With a grim little smile, he nodded at the bottle. He considered the mop handle as a weapon for a moment but then shook his head; he didnt have the strength to use it. Sure, he could squeeze the plastic trigger of a squirt bottle, but swinging a mop handle? And to any effect? No, easy as it normally would have been, it was currently out of the question. Going back to the locked doors, he went to the first one, across from the utility closet, and tried it again. Still locked, and so he took out the ring of CGH keys and started trying them one by one. He was on the sixteenth and next to last one when the tumblers in the lock finally turned, surprising him, and he cautiously turned the handle and pushed open the door. It was dark in there, utterly black, but the meager light from the hallway showed him that it seemed to be a patient room. He could see the edge of a railed bed and the usual linoleum flooring. Just to be sure, he felt inside the doorway for a light switch and, finding one, turned it on. Sure enough, a totally normal, disused-looking hospital room. And no windows or any other doors. In this fashion he checked out the other two locked doors and, to his chagrin, found more of the same; just musty old furniture in musty old rooms. And no stairway. Standing in the last room, he frowned and puzzled over this: How could they not have a set of stairs? What if there was a fire or a blackout? And how had this been missed by all of the various inspectors and state and federal overseers? How could there not be a staircase? This was definitely not part of his plan. But it just didnt matter how or why. Maybe this was such a secret, illegal operation that not having a staircase was the least of their worries. Maybe He shook his head to clear this pointlessness and tried to think. What now? Should he just bite the bullet and get into the elevator? Then he remembered something and, snapping his fingers, turned around and went back (no longer bothering to tip-toe) to his own room. Larry was still there, of course, still unconscious, breathing loudly through his bleeding mouth. After a quick check on him, Baird left Larry and went over to the only room he hadnt been in down here, the lab or computer room hed glimpsed earlier in passing. Maybe there was a stairway in there. He tried the key that had opened all the other doors, but it wasnt even close, so he went back to trying them all. After only two tries this time, the lock clicked and he was able to push the door open and move into the room. It was a lab after all, he saw. Long tables were covered with computers and other monitor-type machines, but there were also microscopes, beakers, racks of test tubes, all kinds of vials and jars and bottles with tiny labels, and papers, some hand-written, some printed out, mingled into it all in small drifts. Shelves, packed with more bottles and vials, plus lots of books, lined the length-wise walls, and a couple of comfortable computer chairs rounded out the furniture. The machines all seemed to be on, the screens lit up and some beeping softly, and there was a faint hum and the plastic smell of electrical appliances. Overall, it was cluttered but not really messy; well-used but not disorganized. Intensely curious, despite his situation (not to mention that he was sorely disappointed in not finding some damned stairs), Baird went over to the first computer he came to and peered at the screen. It was blank, just a background tweed pattern, but he looked closer at the desktop icons and, among the mundane and indecipherable, found one marked CT scans 11/22/12. Reaching for the mouse (which provoked another sharp jab in his belly), he looked over his shoulder in a ridiculously furtive manner and then chided himself for it and clicked on the icon in question. At first he had no idea what he was looking at. There was a large blue blob, with lots of little squiggly lines through it in concentric patterns, and in the middle of this, a red blob with more circles and

patterns. Utter visual gibberish. One thing was clear, though: it was a CT scan of him. There was a tab at the top (among a whole slew of buttons and toolbars with names he didnt understand), marked patient 87, Baird, William J. He stared at this for some time as a sick feeling welled up in his stomach. Could that be true? Was he really the eighty-seventh poor bastard that had been imprisoned and tortured by these butchers? He was tempted to leave the CT scan program and go hunting through the computer for evidence of this, some records that would confirm that theyd truly done this to eighty-six other people, but then thought twice and didnt bother. If it wasnt true, and if maybe the number was simply arbitrary, then fine. And if it was true and he was the latest in a long line, he frankly didnt want to know about it. Peering at the weird, op-art image on the screen again, he moved the mouse up to the few buttons he recognized--arrows--and clicked on the one for forward. The image shifted marginally, but still didnt look like anything more than blobs and lines. He clicked forward again, and then three more times, slowly, and then stopped and stared for a long time. The blobs had sort of resolved themselves, into what he could now see was an image of his lower ribcage and upper abdomen. He could see ribs, ropy, twisty guts, and other gruesome but normal-seeming internal organ type things, but there was something else there, too and someone--Carver, ostensibly--had circled it with a loosely-drawn line of white. Leaning almost nose to the screen, he frowned at the image; was it an organ, or a bone? It didnt look like one, more like a separate set of bones, very tiny bones, arranged in a kind of pattern Then his head leapt up and his heart lurched as he heard voices coming from his room, just beyond the door to this lab. Apparently theyd found Larry. Frantically, his first impulse to hide, he cast about the room and then lunged towards the only possible place to do so, behind a big industrial metal cabinet that turned out to be a freezer. Scrunched into a corner behind the thing, hot air from its exhaust a welcome contrast to the cold tile floor, he pulled up his legs, clutched the spray bottle full of bleach, and crouched down so that he was at least hidden from casual view. The voices got louder and then the door to the room he was in opened and someone entered. From experience, the sound of the footsteps--hard clacks as opposed to the soft squeak of the nurses Nikes and Reeboks--told him that it was Carver. Baird held his breath and tensed involuntarily. The footsteps came closer, paused for a few seconds, and resumed. Closer now, impossibly loud to his ears, even over the fairly loud hum of the freezer. Clack, clack, clack. Closer still, and then Then the footsteps started again, moving more quickly this time, and, beyond all hope, they were moving away! Baird let out his breath, but the relief he felt was brutally short, cut dead when the lab door was suddenly swept open and Carvers voice rang out: In here! he shouted. Hear me? In here! Bairds heart sank and he hung his head. He stood up from behind the freezer, sighed right down to his toes, and waited for them. When they came, restraints in hand and a gurney in tow, he didnt put up a fight; he didnt use the spray bottle or the mace or resist them in any way. He knew when hed been beaten. And later, as he let the almost welcome buzz of the drugs pull him under, feeling very much that hed just as soon die now and just get it over with, he couldnt help but picture that arrangement, the strangely familiar pattern of little white bones. The next time he woke up was, even compared to thousands of these strange awakenings, the weirdest thing of all. It took a while, of course, and he had to fight first the impulse to ignore consciousness and then to regain it, but finally he came to, squinting in unaccustomed sunlight, and looked around. He was back in the room hed first had, the one with the ugly curtains, green linoleum, and pastecolored walls. The TV, sound muted, was on and showing CNN. The clock read 10:34 and bright sunlight flooded in from the window. Outside, past the hospital grounds, the green of the pine forest offset the brown of the grass and nearer, on the grounds, sat a few pieces of lonely-looking playground equipment. To his surprise, he found that he wasnt restrained in any way and there was not a single tube, IV, or electrode wire in sight. Amazed and very confused, he spent a moment simply staring about the room before realizing that, drug-fog aside, he actually felt not so bad; no chills or aches, he could breath

without pain, not quite so utterly weak and listless Blinking, even more confused, he stretched his arms and legs and shoved down the blanket and sheet. The room was quiet, but from somewhere outside came very faint voices and a general hum of human and mechanical activity. A thought cut through the fog and he suddenly felt of his side. It hurt, yes, but not nearly so much as it had. Lifting his gown, he saw that there was a bandage taped there, but it was pure white and small, only a couple of folds of gauze. What the hell? He looked around the room again, utterly at a loss, and frowned. What were Carver and his people up to now? He didnt have long to wonder, as the door presently swung open and a nurse, none other than Allie, the first person hed ever met at County General, came breezing into the room, pushing her cart, and gave him a great big smile. Well, look whos awake! she beamed. Finally! Baird frowned again, his brain trying to seize up, and shrugged. Allie parked her cart and pecked at its computer before nodding at the window. Beautiful day out, she said cheerily. Baird nodded woodenly. Yeah? he said. Oh, good. Thats great. Still smiling, Allie came over and took his vitals. Up close, she looked different somehow, not so hag-ridden and wan, more healthy and alert. He stared at her, brow furrowing, and she looked back at him. Is anything wrong? she said, concern in every line of her face. What Baird tried, failed, and shook his head. Whats going on? Why am I back here? And what about everything? She shook her head. I Im afraid I dont understand, she said feelingly. Everything? Oh, come on, said Baird acidly. You know full well what Im talking about. Carver? And his procedures? The private room, down in the basement? Allie frowned slightly and shook her head again. Mr. Baird, she said sadly, I think that maybe youre having some sort of reaction. To the anesthesia, I mean. Or the medications. But dont worry. Just lie easy and Ill call the doctor. All right? Baird scowled. Yeah, you do that, he said. Get Carver in here. Allie nodded gravely, made some notes on her computer, and then wheeled it and the cart out of the room. She left the door open and Baird could now hear even more generic hospital background noise; people talking and laughing, the ding of an elevator, the beep and hum of various machines, footsteps on tile floors All just what one would expect, but to Baird, used to the near-total silence of his former room, it was shockingly incongruous, bustling and freakishly loud. Was this even the same hospital? He sat and scratched his head for a moment, truly puzzled, and then the clacking of footsteps announced the arrival of Dr. Carver. Tall, thin, and bald as ever, the man looked exactly the same to Baird, but there was what seemed like actual warmth to the smile he gave and his sharp blue eyes seemed softer and filled more with concern than their customary malice. Ah, Mr. Baird! he said, coming to the bedside. Im very glad to see that youre awake. You had us all very worried! Baird glared into the mans eyes for a long moment, searching for the nasty, predatory Carver hed come to know and hate, but the man only stared mildly back and showed nothing to indicate that he was anything more or less than a concerned physician. Carver eventually broke the staring contest by blinking and clearing his throat. Is there anything the matter, Mr. Baird? he asked. I was told that you were a bit confused. Do you have any questions? Bairds eyes widened and he gave a grunt of a laugh. Questions? he said. Do I have questions? Yeah, you could say that. I mean, just a few, you know? Carver nodded solicitously. Of course, he said, and waited. Well, for one thing, said Baird, sitting up in bed, I want to know just what the fuck you think youre doing here! I mean, Jesus Christ, you drug me and cut me up and keep me a prisoner here for God

knows how long and, and now youre going to gaslight me? Try to tell me it never happened or it was all a dream or some crap? I mean, what is the goddamned point?! Really, I want to know. What are you trying to prove? Carver had stood impassively through this little tirade but now frowned sadly and shook his head in a way that was actually more infuriating than his usual impassive glare. Oh dear, he said, oozing empathy. Im afraid you are having a reaction to the medication. Im sure it will pass, but for the time being you may experience some rather unpleasant side effects. Baird scowled and shook his head. No, no, he said. Its not that and you know it. I remember everything, doctor. Understand? You can try to tell me it was all a dream or some kind of drug reaction, but I know what happened to me. I remember what you did. Carver smiled indulgently. And what did I do? he asked gently. If you dont mind my asking. Baird glared at the man and sneered. You know what you did you son of a bitch, Baird said, his heart thudding at his ribs. You took me down to your little private suite, down in the basement, and you did some kind of operation on me. I was down there for days and days and you-- Then Baird stopped himself, snapped his mouth shut, and gave Carver another long look. The doctor stared blandly back, still with that terrible, indulgent smile, and then cocked his head to the side. Is there something else? Carver asked, as if he was addressing a child. Pulse loud in his ears and mind a whirlwind of confusion, Baird considered for a moment before finally shaking his head. No, he said woodenly. Nothing else. You must be right. I uh, I guess I am having a reaction. To the drugs. Of course. So uh no. Nothing else. And Ill just, you know, wait for it to wear off. Right? Carver nodded. Of course, he said. And it shouldnt take too long, hopefully. In the meantime, I would like to see you eat and have something to drink. And when youre feeling a little more up to it, well talk about your prognosis. Now, if you need anything, just buzz for the nurse, and Ill see you a little later, alright? Baird nodded grimly. Yup, he said. Sounds good. Carver nodded again, still with the I-actually-care smile, and then took his leave. The clack of his footsteps got fainter and fainter until they were lost in the general hubbub of the hospital. Baird sat there for a long time and thought things over, but this only made him more angry. So that was their final joke, their parting shot: They were going to gaslight him. Tell him it had never happened. But it wouldnt work. They had kept him here for a long time and people would have noticed by this time. His boss and coworkers, at least! And when he got out of here, it would be straight to the cops. See Carver and his goons taken away in handcuffs, just like Harvey Deweer had wanted. But then doubt, insidious, pervasive doubt, like a wave washing over the sand castle of his memories, swept over him, the anger turned to confusion, and he began to actually wonder. Wasnt it just possible? After all, he had been very sick and theyd probably had to give him a lot of heavy drugs. Wasnt it possible that hed imagined the whole thing? Hed had a very high fever; didnt that make you hallucinate? Suddenly something came to mind and he looked up at the TV. The white lettering was very small and the TV grainy and pixilated, but even so, he could plainly see the date in the bottom left corner, November 3rd, 2012. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, but there was no mistake. Clutching his forehead with one hand, he let out a ragged sigh and fell back in bed. How, he wondered, was this possible? Hed been at County General at least two weeks, probably more like two months, but somehow it was only four days from when hed first been admitted! He thought about this, struggling to reach some explanation, but he was sure of the fact that hed been admitted on the 30th of October, mainly because at the time hed taken special note of the date, just one day short of Halloween. And now it was only the 4th? He shook his head and stared at the ceiling. So it was possible that hed imagined everything. Even more, it now seemed almost probable. Raising the hospital gown again, he looked at the dressing on his side and then touched it, but it barely even hurt. In fact, now that the heavier side effects of the drugs were starting to wear off, he was starting to feel pretty good. Not great, not like normal, but compared to the way hed felt when he was really sick,

it was like being eighteen again. He was even hungry. He lay there some more and thought about things for an hour or so, turning them over in his mind like a ridiculously difficult 3D puzzle, before another nurse, Kathy by name, a big, tall rangy gal with a horsey face and teeth to match, came in with her cart and smiled at him. Hello, Mr. Baird, she said chirpily. Are you feeling better? Uh, yeah, he said, thinking. Lots better, thanks. I was wondering though: Can you tell me what day it is? The date, I mean. Today is the 4th of November, said Kathy, busy at the carts computer. And its Saturday. So Ive been here how long? he asked, trying for casual. Well, lets see, the nurse said, and pecked at the keyboard. Today makes your fifth day with us. You were admitted on Tuesday the 30th. Uh huh, Baird nodded. And why dont but then he stopped and shook his head. Uh, never mind. I guess I have a few questions, but I can talk to the doctor about all of that, right? Well, of course, said Kathy, turning from the cart. But really, theres not that much to tell. You came in with a very serious case of pneumonia. High fever, difficulty breathing, coughing and chills, the whole gamut of symptoms. Yeah, that much I remember, Baird said. But what then? What did you people, uh do for me once I was admitted? What was the, you know, treatment? Its kind of a blank to me Really? said Kathy. Well, I suppose thats not too surprising. Like I said, your fever was very high. That can cause all kinds of strange perceptions. And you were pretty out of it. As for treatment, mainly the doctors just prescribed a course of strong antibiotics. Then what about this, whatever, wound in my side? Whats up with that? A temporary feeding tube, said the nurse. You werent able to eat on your own, and we couldnt let you starve, now could we? And dont worry: Its a tiny little hole. Heal up in a few days. Baird nodded stiffly, sitting back as Kathy took his blood pressure and temperature. When shed finished and seen to his comfort, she left again and he lay there and wondered. Later, as the orange ball of the sun sank behind the black pines outside his window, he was again visited by Dr. Carver. Hed had a meal by then, pancakes and bacon, even some coffee, and was feeling physically not so bad. He was still deeply confused, but already the simple relief of being well again was starting to supplant the muddle of his thoughts and it was getting easier by the minute (especially given the hard, cold fact of todays date) to dismiss most of his stay here at County General as some kind of fever-dream, a whole elaborate fantasy concocted by his poor boiling brain. Carver walked in unceremoniously as always and came right over to the bed. Well hello there, he said, smiling. Feeling better? Baird nodded and managed a smile. Yes, I am, he said. Much better. Ah, good. You seem less confused as well. Baird frowned and then nodded. Yeah, he said slowly. I guess so. But, man that was something! It all seemed so real, you know? Pretty amazing what the mind can come up with, I suppose. Carver nodded and smiled. Well, with a fever such as you had, he said, its not that uncommon. But thats all over with now. Another day, just to make sure youre doing well, and then youll be back on your way. He went on to tell Baird in detail about what theyd done with him over the last few days, but it was simply an elaborate version of what Nurse Kathy had already told him, and by the end Baird was almost bored by the whole thing. By the time the doctor left, he was all but convinced (and very relieved, as a result) that the whole ugly experience had been nothing worse than a nightmare. He dozed a little after the doctor left, simply enjoying being warm, fed, and almost pain free, before something occurred to him. Hoping but not expecting much, he drew aside the blankets, arranged the IV stand with accustomed ease, got to his feet, and walked (only a little unsteadily) over to the locker/closet. Inside were his suitcase and his satchel and he took both of them out and then, noticing a promising heft to the latter, unzipped the bag and discovered (Hallelujah!) his laptop. Unzipping the other pockets, he found everything just as it should be, phone and keys included. Nothing missing at all.

The phone wasnt charged, as he soon found, but that was normal, and when he opened and fired up his computer, it was just as it should be, all the programs and files intact and just as hed left them. And down in the bottom right corner, todays date, 11/4, plain as day. Grinning, suddenly so happy and relieved that a few tears came to his eyes, Baird closed the laptop, set it aside, and lay back, arms behind his head, and wondered about nothing more troubling than what he should have for dinner. The next day, about noon, he signed the last few papers, shook hands with Dr. Carver and hugged a few of the nurses and nurses aides, and, feeling thin and weak but nonetheless fantastic, walked out of County General Hospital. Laughing and joking with the staff as he left, his last words to them were: No offense you guys, but I really hope I never, ever see any of you ever again! Know what I mean? They all had a good laugh over that one. And by the time Baird hit the freeway, he was singing along to the radio. Back home, he picked up his life just where hed left it. It wasnt hard; there hadnt been all that much to leave or pick up. Aside from a get well card and some kind inquiries into his health, his coworkers more or less shrugged and told him they were glad he was OK and then moved on. So you were sick (they seemed to be saying) and now youre all better. Great, and so what? Happens all the time. He thought once in a while of telling someone about the weird nightmare, how real it had seemed and how terrifying, but these were his coworkers. They werent family or even friends, not really, and since he had no family or friends of which to speak, he thought better of it and told no one. Best not to sound like a nut with people you worked with, and the few casual acquaintances he had sure as hell wouldnt want to hear about some crazy dream hed had when hed been sick. No, best to just write it off, forget about it, and get back to work. There was fertilizer to sell. Yes, life went back to its usual dull routine, but not without a couple of bad moments, incidents he later supposed were something like an acid flashbacks, or some weird repressed false memories. Mere brain farts. The first one happened about a month after he was back on the job. Hed been reaching into his satchel for a pen at the time, locked in on a sweet deal with the local co-op manager, when hed spotted something in the corner of the satchel pocket. Small, white, a balled-up napkin, apparently. Suddenly deaf to the co-op guys corny running patter, hed taken the little wad of napkin from the bag with shaking hands and smoothed it out. There was writing on it, in pencil. Tiny letters, smeary and smudged, but still legible. Baird had frozen, staring at the napkin like it was about to bite him, and reeled on his feet. Suddenly hed felt dizzy and sort of sick. Whatcha got there? hed heard the co-op manager saying. Got some hot chicks number or somethin? Baird had reeled again, just a little, and had then clamped his jaw shot, straightened up, and shook his head. No, hed said firmly. Its nothing. And crumpling it back up, into a very tight little ball, hed tossed it into the trash and adamantly, diligently refused to give it another thought. Didnt happen, end of story, period. The second incident occurred about a week after the first, when hed been in Minneapolis for a sales meeting and had gone to dinner downtown with a coworker. They were leaving the place, a steak and cocktails joint a block off Hennepin, when a panhandler, not an uncommon sight for the area, approached them. His coworker, a good guy named Dan with whom he got along well, shrugged off the panhandler before the man could start his plea, but Baird wasnt as quick and, before he knew it, the raggedy fellow had grabbed him by the arm. Up close--too close--the man smelled of urine and old sweat. His hair was long and wild, his beard stringy and tangled, he had teeth like a dental graveyard, and his clothing seemed more a collection of rags than something someone would wear. When he lay a hand on Bairds arm, Baird recoiled and jerked away, but something in the mans

eyes, a clarity and sharpness incongruous with the rest of him, made Baird stop and look twice at the ragged apparition. Around them, the busy city went on its way, cars and taxis and pedestrians, lights and music and hollers down the block. And then the man spoke and Baird reeled. Youre part of him, now, said the man, clearly and with seeming good cheer. Part of the plan, part of him. And soon youll be able to seek the signs! Oh, youre a lucky man to be chosen by him this way! Baird had opened and closed his mouth, blinking, but then Dan had intervened, getting the panhandler off of him and on his way with a few well-chosen words of threat. Then hed clapped Baird on the shoulder. You OK, man? hed smiled. That nut-job shake you up? Baird had nodded uncertainly and then shrugged in lieu of saying anything. Dan had just laughed. You just aint used to it, hed said, guiding them off towards their car. Working that rural route all these years. Life in the big city, huh? Yeah, Baird had said. Guess youre right. As with the first, he managed to shrug the incident off. Coincidence, he told himself, and nothing more. Forget it. And, these little episodes aside, that was that. After a weeks rest at home, gaining lost weight, sleeping and loafing, hed gone back to his sales route and his life, such as it was, none the worse for the experience. If anything, it had left him with something like a new lease on life and, once fully healed up, he greeted each new day with optimism and good cheer. Nothing like a little glimpse of Hell to make even the most humdrum life seem like a joyride. Yup, life was pretty good. But then it happened and it all went bad. Maybe hed been expecting it. Maybe some part of his mind, still unconvinced, had been trying to tell him it wasnt over yet. But when it happened, somehow he wasnt surprised. He should have known. He was driving along a snow-lined highway, somewhere near the town of Glen Rapids, when suddenly his gut started to hurt. First a dull ache, it soon sharpened into a stabbing and he gasped in pain and clutched the wheel with one hand and his belly with the other. Damn, it hurt! Tears coming to his eyes, he hit the brakes and pulled over onto the shoulder. Holding himself, he groaned as the pain abated a little, only to return at double strength. Outside the car, there was just the lonesome gray highway, the snowy swamps on either side, and a leaden sky above. Inside the car, it was warm and the radio was playing some inane pop song and Baird suddenly screamed as he felt something more than pain. There was pain, to be sure, agony like a white-hot knife in his innards, but there was also something moving. Something that wasnt him. He screamed again as the thing stirred more violently and then again as he felt the tendrils. Like skinny, slimy fingers. Like oily feelers, living wires, filament antennae, reaching out, into his legs, into his arms, through his torso and up the back of his neck Sweating, panting and emitting yelps of pain and terror, Baird rocked back and forth and beat on the steering wheel. On the road not ten feet from him, a semi roared past in a cloud of spindrift snow. Then, quite suddenly, it felt like, the pain eased up and the horrible questing tendrils and the squirming mass in his abdomen settled down to the occasional spasm. Baird waited, breathing hard and wiping sweat from his face, until the worst of it was over. It took a while, maybe an hour, but it gave him time to think. When he finally felt well enough to drive, he got out his phone and brought up the GPS app. In a matter of seconds, he had the route he wanted. Turning the car around, his next sales stop (and just about everything else) utterly forgotten, he hit the gas and tore off into the gray afternoon. After a few miles he frowned down at the silly music coming from the stereo and snapped it off. There was only one destination for him now, only one place that mattered. He was going back to County General.