Если я останусь
12:19 P.M.
Thedoctorsdecideit’stimeforanewgenre.Jazzwins.PeoplealwaysassumethatbecauseIamintoclassicalmusic,I’majazzaficionado.I’mnot.Dadis.Helovesit,especiallythewild,latter-dayColtranestuff.Hesaysthatjazzispunkforoldpeople.Iguessthatexplainsit,becauseIdon’tlikepunk,either.
Theoperationgoesonandon.I’mexhaustedbyit.Idon’tknowhowthedoctorshavethestaminatokeepup.They’restandingstill,butitseemsharderthanrunningamarathon.
Istarttozoneout.AndthenIstarttowonderaboutthisstateI’min.IfI’mnotdead—andtheheartmonitorisbleepingalong,soIassumeI’mnot—butI’mnotinmybody,either,canIgoanywhere?AmIaghost?CouldItransportmyselftoabeachinHawaii?CanIpopovertoCarnegieHallinNewYorkCity?CanIgotoTeddy?
Justforthesakeofexperiment,IwigglemynoselikeSamanthaonBewitched.Nothinghappens.Isnapmyfingers.Clickmyheels.I’mstillhere.
Idecidetotryasimplermaneuver.Iwalkintothewall,imaginingthatI’llfloatthroughitandcomeouttheotherside.ExceptthatwhathappenswhenIwalkintothewallisthatIhitawall.
Anursebustlesinwithabagofblood,andbeforethedoorshutsbehindher,Islipthroughit.NowI’minthehospitalcorridor.Therearelotsofdoctorsandnursesinblueandgreenscrubshustlingaround.Awomanonagurney,herhairinagauzyblueshowercap,anIVinherarm,callsout,"William,William."Iwalkalittlefarther.
