Papers hung everywhere that Claire thought potentially could be art. The floor, which had once been a nice wooden floor, was now pock-marked with the refuse of a painter. He looked up and there was one huge skylight right over her bed. Chris moved over towards Claire’s drawing desk. He traced gently the indentations of her many pencil marks, and motioned for Claire to come near. He said: “Come sit down, I want to show you how to draw.” Claire was definitely perplexed by this request but she obeyed willingly. “I don’t understand.” “You will,” he said, “now take your pencil and put it in your hand. Then I want you to close your eyes and relax your muscles.” Chris, with his head resting on Claire’s shoulder, began to guide Claire’s hand across the paper, not following any specific form just letting his thoughts guide both of their hands. When they opened their eyes, a beautiful drawing had just been created. Claire looked up at him with sheer admiration. He looked back at her, always. A light slap to the side of his face got his attention and he turned his head to her reproachfully. Was that really the best she could do? He deserved worse. “Listen to me. Jen and Fiona are _alive_.” Click. All those friends and co-workers aren’t here for _you_, they’re here for _them_. Just stopping by for a friendly word and well-wishing, that’s all they were doing in your room. Realization hit him like an enervating electrical current. Light that he couldn’t recall being on the ceiling before seemed to burst with radiance, blinding him with intensity as the shock of realization washed over him like a hose full of cold water. Alive? Alive. Alive. Alivealivealivealivealivealivealivealivealive… Breath expelled itself from him in ragged measure, but there was no pain like before. Only only darkness.*** “I want to see them,” he insisted angrily to the pretty young nurse, who looked anxiously in turn at the doctor. “Either give me a goddamn reason why not, or get Mary Reed and explain.
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