It doesn’t matter.
“Greg,” he says again as Mike is shoved to the rear.
She nods, like she expected that. Like she’s almost relieved by it.
He’s sitting up now, the hospital bed shifting up for his back and down for his legs, like he’s in a chair. He’s refusing to look down at his arms and legs. He knows how they are, those thin little things that look as if he’s a stick person drawn by a child. He’s got more movement now, and one of the therapists, a hardass named Leticia, told him the rule of thumb is that for every day he’s been under, he needs five days’ rehabilitation. Mike’s terrible at math. Greg is not and whispered in horror that it was going to take over fifteen years. The PT laughed. “I don’t think it’ll be like that for you. It’s different in stasis. Your muscles will remember sooner than, say, a regular coma victim. They’ll build back up, and you’ll be up and moving around before you know it. You’re a miracle, you know that, right?”
He doesn’t know that.
Because he doesn’t understand this.
He doesn’t know what stasis is. He doesn’t know why his muscles need to remember.
I’m real, Greg thinks.
I’m real, Mike thinks.
There’s a camera set up on a tripod, facing them. A red light blinks at the bottom. Dr. King said she needed to record this. Mike didn’t understand what that meant. Greg told him not to worry about it. Mike worried anyway.
“And you know what year it is.”
1954, Mike thinks.
“2018,” Greg says slowly.
“And the date?”
“October….” He stops because Mike is pushing somewhere in his head. He’s thinking the Harvest Festival was on Saturday the second. He knows that for a fact. It was the first when he left, and he’s been here… he doesn’t know how long. What if he’s missed the dance? It had to have been hours, at least. Right? Time was a little funny to him, right now. “October second?” Greg knows that’s wrong, but Mike is chanting it now, like a prayer.
She nods. “And how long do you think you’ve been awake?”
He doesn’t know what time it is now. There’s no clock in the room and no one will tell him the time. “Half a day,” he guesses, because that’s what Mike thinks. Only half a day, which is fine. Sure, Sean is probably worried, but he still hasn’t missed the dance, and that is all that’s important.
&nb
sp; Dr. King says, “Okay. Greg, I want you to listen to me, okay? Can you do that for me?”
“Yes,” he says, even though he hates the tone in her voice, like she’s better than him. Like she knows so many things he doesn’t. He’s always hated people like that, even if he can’t remember all too well.
“It’s December 5th, 2018. You’ve been awake for two months.”
Mike howls deep inside him.
“Oh” is all Greg can think to say. “Merry Christmas.”
Dr. King looks a little startled at that. “You too, Greg. Thank you.”
No! Mike shouts. No! No!
Greg winces, but he’s able to keep Mike back.
“Are you uncomfortable?” Dr. King asks him.
Greg wants to laugh. He’s got tubes shoved into his arms and his nose and his dick. He’s got something called a gastric tube jutting from his stomach that he’s told is feeding him nutrients because they don’t want to strain his throat yet. He thinks of all the days that have passed that he and Mike unknowingly consolidated into hours. “Yes,” he says. “But I doubt there’s anything you can do about that.”
“I could give you a low-level sedative if you think that would help.”
Mike breaks from his cries, voice furious. No. No more drugs. No more drugs. No more drugs.