CHAPTER 4

Bob hated hospitals. He hated the mere idea of hospitals. He hated them even more when he woke up in them.

He tried to sit up, only to discover that his arms and legs were restrained. Swimming through his Darvocet haze, Bob managed to notice that whoever had done the restraining had also been kind enough to place the nurse call button within reach. He throttled the red button for thirty good seconds before the door to his room swung open and a great, svelte, bald man in his fifties -- with cotton-ball tufts of white chest hair spilling from the v-line of his bloody medical scrubs -- entered. He smiled at Bob with gleaming white teeth.

"Let's see," the man said, spritely, scanning the clipboard in the hand that wasn't holding a snow globe of the skyline of Cleveland. "You are Robert Ferber. You are insured, and it's a damn good thing. You reside at 1521 Miasma Terrace, apartment four and a half. Your blood type is O-positive, and you are presently interred here at St. Stephen's Medical Center in Spunderville-adjacent. As for me, my name is Doctor Tumblar Wockenfusch, and I am a thoracic specialist. My parents were decent providers, though they did not give me enough unconditional love and tenderness as a small child, which I believe is at least part of the reason I chose to become a physician. So, you see, everything works out for the best."

Dr. Wockenfusch inhaled for the first time since entering the room, and then leaned in so close that Bob could smell the Listerine on his breath. "And now, Mr. Ferber -- Robert, if I may -- how can I be of service?"

Bob pinched his thigh to see whether he was dreaming. He felt a confirming twinge of pain. "Bob," he said. "People call me Bob."

Dr. Wockenfusch beamed. "Bob?! You don't say! I once asked my parents for a bobcat for Christmas. Of course, they didn't give it to me. They never gave me anything I asked for. But that taught me to work hard for things, and I'm told that bobcats make for dangerous house pets anyway, so everything really does work out for the best, doesn't it?" Dr. Wockenfusch lifted the sheet and began to examine Bob's toes. "By the saints, these are some damn fine metatarsals."

"What happened to me?" Bob blurted, curling his toes under.

Dr. Wockenfusch furrowed his furry white brow and replaced the sheet. "I'm sorry, Bob. I don't get your meaning." Bob felt his blood pressure begin to spike, and took a deep breath.

"I mean what happened to me? Why am I here?"

"Oh...you mean 'happened.' As in, 'occurred,' in the immediate sense. Why didn't you say so?" Dr. Wockenfusch pulled up a chair and sat down next to Bob.

"Thing is, Bob, we don't exactly know what happened to you. Well, that isn't precisely true...we do know what happened, at least up until the point that you barreled into the little boy in the intersection with your truck."

And there it was. The accident at Twelfth and Sycamore pierced Bob's memory -- lucid, sharp and awful, as if Dr. Wockenfusch were narrating the instant replay. But while the audio played on, Bob's video froze suddenly on a blurry red light with indistinct shape, and went no further. The light seemed to be trying to reach out through the fog, to define itself...a word, perhaps. But then Dr. Wockenfusch set his snow globe of Cleveland down on Bob's chest, breaking his concentration, and the vision disappeared.

The doctor twirled a tuft of chest hair as he continued: "According to eyewitness accounts, you suffered some sort of a seizure when you attempted to get out of your vehicle, and your heart stopped. You were gone for a good seven minutes, near as anyone can tell, before the paramedics revived you with some epinephrine and a few good pops from the old magic wand. How about that, Beebo?! Back from the dead! You've been heavily sedated ever since, of course."

Bob staved off waves of panic as the instant of the accident played over and over again in his mind's eye. He knew the collision was severe. "Is he...is he alright?"

Dr. Wockenfusch paused, confused. "I'm sorry, Bob, but I'm not very good with non-sequiturs."

"Jesus Christ, the boy -- the boy I hit. Is he alright?"

Dr. Wockenfusch discharged a laugh from deep in his belly. "That's a good one, Bob. See there? You've already got your sense of humor back. You'll be back out on the racquetball court in no time flat. By gum, if everything doesn't always work out for the best."

Bob felt the restraints bite into his wrists as he involuntarily reached up to choke Dr. Wockenfusch. He spoke through clenched teeth. "If the boy's not alright...is he dead?"

"Oh, no, Bob," said Dr. Wockenfusch, "he's resting comfortably. In a coma. He's in our Judy Garland Memorial Coma Wing, right above the Gus Grissom Memorial Gift Shop. Minimal brain wave activity, I'm told. But at least he isn't dead, right?"

Coma. As Bob tried to digest the word, Dr. Wockenfusch took his snow globe, stood, and made his way to the door. "I have to be going now, Bob. There are a lot of sick sons of bitches out there. But we're going to keep you here for a few more days, run a few more diagnostics, feed you some experimental foods, and insert some foreign objects into your rectum. If you need anything in the meantime, please don't hesitate to be patient, and do remember that everything always works out for the best. Good luck!" And with that, Dr. Wockenfusch slammed the door.

Bob didn't even notice he was gone.

To make matters worse, Polly was lost. Hopelessly lost. She'd taken the Carmen Miranda Memorial Elevator to the sixth floor, just as the lady at reception had told her, and followed the green line to the pink line. But the pink line only deposited her right back at the Carmen Miranda Memorial Elevator again, and not at the Judy Garland Coma Wing as promised. Somehow, there was no longer a green line at all -- only orange and purple -- and she was on the fifth floor instead of the sixth. It all seemed like a cruel joke.

She decided to consult hospital personnel, but no one was manning the desk on the fifth floor. In fact, she noticed, there wasn't a sound. The hall was empty of patients, doctors and nurses alike. Polly sampled hard candy from a bowl on the desk, and found it to be horribly stale. She spit it out. Then she rang the service bell, and heard it echo down the dark, empty corridor.

"Hello?!"

It was a voice other than her own. She rang the bell again.

"Help me!"

The second time, it was unmistakable. A man. She answered down the hall in the direction she'd come. "Where are you?"

"In here! Please! Help!"

A series of near misses later, Polly finally located the door from which the man's voice seemed to be coming. She hesitated for a moment, and opened the door. She walked inside, and found Bob Ferber restrained to a gurney, his right index finger hammering a nurse call button. He was pale as ash, and covered in sweat. Polly recognized him immediately.

"You're alright!"

"Do I look alright?" Bob barked. "Who the hell are you?"

"I witnessed the accident today. I came here to see the little boy, but instead I found you in this...here."

"You know where the little boy is?" Bob asked, direly.

"Yes. I mean, not really. They gave me directions, but I got lost." Polly looked down at Bob's restraints. "Why are you tied up?"

"Good goddamn question. I saw a doctor, but he left and I can't get anyone to come and talk to me or untie me or turn my television on or anything. I can't even reach the fucking phone. Will you untie me?"

Polly hesitated. "Oh, I don't know. They might have you restrained for a reason...you know, for your own good. I don't want to get in any kind of trouble. I'll go get someone." Polly went for the door.

"No. Don't attract attention. There's something very, very wrong about this place, and I want out. Now." She paused in the doorway. "Please," Bob implored her. "I'm scared."

Polly was torn. She didn't know this man from the Spunderville Strangler, and she could only imagine why the hospital staff would tie him up in a vacant wing. But those were rational thoughts, and Polly tended to listen to her instinct. It was right more often than not. And her instinct told her that she was called to Bob Ferber for reasons she did not yet understand.

She reached down and untied him. Each of them peeked out of the room to find the hallway still empty, then padded together, quietly, to the Carmen Miranda Memorial Elevator. Bob pressed the down button, and they waited.

"What's your name?" Polly whispered.

"I'm Bob." He did not ask her name.

"I'm Polly. And you're welcome."

"Oh. I'm sorry. Thank you." The elevator door opened, and they got inside the empty car. Bob pressed the button for the lobby, five floors below.

It wasn't until three floors later that he realized they were climbing instead.

To be continued...