It is good news, he tells me. Amazing news.

This is supposed to mean something to me; of that at least, I am certain... though I cannot find it in myself to care. His words drone on and on, but none of them seem significant. He drapes his diagnosis in technical details and dresses it with hope for the future which means nothing to me. They can't see that I feel lost. I feel adrift. I do not care; I care more than anything. I don't understand; I understand everything. I want to leave, but I am afraid. I want to stay here, but I am afraid.

Something has gone wrong, they say. They don't know what. But still, I am alive... they think. In so far as I can walk around this bland, sterile little hospital room, I am alive. In so far as I could talk to them should I wish it, I am alive. The blood in my veins flows slowly, my heart beats and my lungs fill with air. But the tongue in my mouth that seems so unwilling to form words is dry and cannot taste. My brainwaves do not show any activity, my skin is cold. I cannot feel anything. Yet still I sit here in front of them. My eyes are unnaturally pale and my gaze seems to unnerve whomever I direct it at. I do not blink. The Doctor continues his diagnosis by rote, detailing my symptoms one by one, now and again looking down at his notes. Occasionally, he gestures at me as he speaks. Perched on a chrome stool, he swivels the seat around to face the others in the room.

I am the first to come back, he continues. As such, there will be a few initial problems to overcome, but there is significant global interest in me. There is even more interest in this place. This I understand; this I remember. Awaking to brilliant light and pain and the sound of cheering. Before that... I don't know. There was darkness.

They have given me a photograph, but the man staring out of it is alien to me, no matter what the mirror shows. He is not me, although he looks like me. I am a different thing, reborn, changed. I am lost within myself. I feel a stirring echo of my life before, a resonance within me that should mean something - but none of it touches me. I am unique and I am alone. I feel nothing and everything. I see the man in the photograph, I see the children he is holding in his arms. I see the woman whose eyes radiate love from below long, soft hair that spills like caramel over her shoulders. They are haunting, familiar, and something gnaws at my mind in painful recognition. I know I should, but I can't remember them, I can't remember holding them, or ever being looked at like that. I can't remember love. She is laughing in the pictures; the man is smiling. I cannot smile.

The diagnosis goes on. I watch faces turn away one by one, unsettled, as I stare at them. They cannot say why my body refuses to respond totally to the drugs and the treatments; why I have not come completely back to myself. I turn away from the people in the room and look at the photograph again. They will not tell me where the family in the photograph are; they will not tell me how long I have been here.

The Doctor continues. He tells the room at large that it is a scientific miracle that they have achieved. The process of bringing a human being out of Cryostasis has finally succeeded, and I am the first subject to come back to consciousness. They have conquered death, he says, and I hear the sound of cautious applause. Blinded by what they have achieved, they have missed what is truly important. They know I was gone and they know they brought me back. But they don't ask what they brought me back from. I would tell them if I could; but every time I try to focus on it my memory dissipates like oil on water.

I remember darkness. I am afraid of what might have been within it, yet I am afraid of what awaits me here. I feel hollow, like there is a huge part of me missing. They tell me that I wanted this, and I cannot imagine why I might have once thought that. They tell me all about the process of Cryogenic Freezing. They tell me I am still a rich man, and again - that I wanted this. I can't believe it. They tell me I gave myself to this willingly. All I want to do now is lie down again. Close my eyes and sleep - but I can't sleep, and I can't dream.

And yet... I think I dreamed, somewhere in the darkness. There was something there, something huge and wild and magnificent, and it's just nagging at the limits of my memory, vivid, brilliant and terrible, so close I could touch it but forever out of my reach. Like the woman in the picture; with her love shining so clearly across her face; like the children in the picture; frozen in time with their beautiful smiles and tiny hands and happy eyes and golden skin - so close the memory fills my mind like the warmth of sun on my skin; a dream so beautiful it would make me cry if I could see it, but it is always impossibly out of reach, like chasing a rainbow or tasting colours.

I come back to myself slowly. The room is empty. I was not aware of anyone leaving, I have no idea of how long I have been alone. The photograph lies on the floor at my feet. I raise my head and look around me. I can see lots of faces looking at me from viewing windows set high in the white walls, like I am an insect observed under glass. It matters little, when I slowly begin to understand the terrible truth - that my body sits in this room, but my soul remains somewhere else.

I know then what I must do.

Moving like a robot, I stand. I am aware of movement behind the glass, this being the first time I have shown any kind ambition with my body. People are pointing, gesticulating. My robe falls open as I walk slowly over to the only door, pulling a chair behind me. I see them starting to run as I jam the chair under the door handle, barring it. Fists start hammering the glass but it is soundproof, so I hear nothing - the impact makes it shudder in its frame with every strike. I pull the cord of my robe free and form it into a noose.

It is easy to climb onto the doctor's stool and attach the cord onto the light fitting. I remove the robe, put the noose around my neck, and without hesitation kick the stool from under my feet.

There is a momentary sensation of falling, then I am jerked rigid. Too late, there comes shouting from behind the door as the cord tightens and brutally constricts my throat. There is pain shooting up my spine, my feet spasm and my idiot tongue sticks uncontrollably from my mouth. There is a rushing sound in my ears which ascends to a deafening roar, blocking out the screams.

Against my will, I am dimly aware of my hands reaching up to tear at the noose, but it is a futile, animal gesture. I cannot close my eyes as they bulge from my face, but still my vision is dimming, burning away as an impenetrable, impossible blackness blossoms like a constellation in front of me, and I begin to feel something for the first time since they revived me.

I see the darkness again, and I remember what awaits me there.

And then there is hope.

"Sara, how are you feeling today? Does your arm feel any better?"

The little girl sat on the exam table, eyes wide and unfocused, bandaged arm limp in her lap. She was trembling and sweaty, not to mention terrified out of her mind.

Doctor Rosetti turned to her parents. "Has she told you what happened yet?"

"No." Jana Parkinson stroked her daughter's hair. "She still hasn't said anything." Jana sighed. "And we still haven't found Daisy."

"To hell with the dog!"

"Mike, please-"

"Oh, come on, Jana! It was that damn dog that hurt Sara. Doctor, are you sure it's not rabies?"

The doctor shrugged. "I can't say with absolute certainty that it's not, of course, but it's a very rare disease, so chances are it's something else entirely." He motioned to the nurse. "We're going to have to take more blood. Sara, I'm going to have to take another look at your arm, okay?"

Sara whimpered as he unwrapped the bandage. The skin around the wound was red and inflamed. As Rosetti probed the edges of the wound, a putrid odor wafted from the infected flesh. Jana turned away, gasping.

"No." Mike started shaking his head. "It was healing, Doc. I mean, it was scabbing over. This shouldn't happen. Should it?"

"The antibiotics I prescribed-"

"She's been taking them, I swear!" Jana said. "We even set the alarm to go off so she wouldn't miss a dose. But this morning she woke up with a fever. Doctor, what's wrong with my daughter?" Mike drew her close as she burst into tears.

Rosetti looked her straight in the eyes. "Don't you worry, Mrs. Parkinson. We'll find out what's going on, and we'll do everything we can to help her. Now, Marcus here is going to take some more blood samples, and we're going to do every test we can think of. I'm going to confer with my colleague Doctor Romero. If you need anything, just holler."

*****

Rosetti glanced down the hall to where Marcus was drawing blood. Unlike most young patients, Sara didn't resist the needle at all. She was either being very brave, or she was withdrawing from the world. Judging by how terrified Sara was when he examined her, Rosetti suspected the latter. He turned back to his colleague.

"He said the wound was healing?"

"Yep. Which means the antibiotics were working. But why did they stop working?"

Alvarez chewed on his pen, thinking. "Maybe we're dealing with two separate bacterial strains. The antibiotics took care of the first, leaving the second room to multiply. Which would mean we're dealing with an antibiotic-resistant strain."

"Damn. You're probably right." Rosetti frowned. "I suppose we could be lucky and the antibiotics were faulty."

"Don't bet on it. You know, it could be something else entirely."

"Like what?"

"Like whatever is causing the infection has a period of dormancy."

Rosetti shook his head. "Even if that were the case, it would still be antibiotic-resistant. She's still on her meds. I guess we'll just have to wait for the test re-"

"Mommy! Mommy! Get it away! Get it away from me!" Rosetti and Alvarez took off towards the screams.

"Sara, Mommy's here! Mommy and Daddy are here! Everything's okay, baby, I promise you," Jana said as she cradled her wailing child.

"What is it? What happened?" Rosetti slid to a halt beside the girl. Despite her parents' soothing words, Sara's shrieking only grew louder and less coherent.

Mike glanced at the doctor. "What? I don't-"

"Something happened to make Sara react like this. I need to know what it is!"

"Nothing, just- we were just talking to her, asking her about that day in the park." He hugged his family closer. "But it's not like we've never tried to get it out of her, you know? But she was watching the needle and her arm started to itch and she squirmed and she just snapped and started screaming-"

"Okay, okay. Let's get her a sedative. We need to find out what happened." Alvarez handed him a syringe, which he carefully injected into Sara's arm. He was dismayed to notice that her temperature had shot up in the short while since he had examined her. When she had stopped screaming, Rosetti put a hand on her cheek. She looked at him and whimpered.

"Sara, it's going to be okay," he said as calmly as he could. "You said, 'Get it away.' Get what away? Can you tell me?"

Sara screwed up her face and started to cry. "Don't let it get me!"

"I won't, I promise, but I need to know what it is. Do you remember what it was?"

"I don't know," she sobbed, her lower lip quivering. "I thought she was a girl. I wanted to play with her, but Daisy didn't like her. She tried to bite me and she scratched me. I was so scared. She was a monster. Daisy chased her away."

Alvarez pushed his colleague out of the way. "A girl did this? Are you sure it was a girl who attacked you?"

Sara nodded and pressed her face into her mother's neck.

"Raoul-"

Alvarez shushed him. "Not here." He grabbed Rosetti's arm and led him down the hall.

"Do you know what she's talking about, Raoul?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure. Look, this is going to sound strange, but hear me out, okay?" Rosetti nodded, and he continued. "A friend of mine over at University Hospital had a similar case last week. Patient was an older man in his seventies. Came in with a fever, but was in good health prior to becoming sick. Like the girl, he was scared and wouldn't say much. Bill said it looked like a bite mark that got infected. He suspected abuse, but the patient couldn't confirm it. He left before the police arrived." Alvarez took a shaky breath. "Now here's where it gets weird. The police dropped by his house to check up on him. He wasn't there, but they found his wife. She was dead."

"Well, hell. An epidemic? All right, let's get the CDC on the line and get that girl into isolation." He moved towards the phone, but Doctor Alvarez grabbed his arm.

"I'm not done, Al. His wife had been shot in the head. The autopsy showed she had been dead for days before he shot her, but there was little decomposition, no sign of lividity, and no insect activity. There was also a substantial bacterial infection. Bill told me they were able to match her teeth to the bite wound."

"Seriously?" Rosetti rolled his eyes. "What you're implying is ridiculous."

"We need to take precautions, Al. If that little girl-"

"She's not going to turn into a z-" He cut himself off with a laugh. "This isn't the movies, Doctor Alvarez." He turned and started to walk away. "I do like your friend, though. Bill, was it? Give him a call and we'll all go out for drinks."

"Code Blue! Doctor Rosetti to Exam Room Two STAT!"

Rosetti and Alvarez took off down the hall.

"Oh, god! Doctor, what's happening?"

*****

Twenty minutes later, Sara was pronounced dead.

Two hours after that, Sara walked out of the morgue.

“It’s called Post Trauma Vision Syndrome,” the doctor explained gently. “When your head slammed against the window during the car crash, your occipital lobe was damaged. That’s the area of the brain that receives and processes visual information and creates the visual aspects of our dreams. Without it, we can’t see.”

The teenage girl rubbed her fingertips against her eyes before opening them and straining for the dozenth time to make out the doctor’s figure. Eyes open or closed, it all was the same. Blackness surrounded her now.

“And there’s nothing you can do?” she asked, her voice sad but steady.

“I’m afraid not.”

The girl, a nineteen-year-old college student named Nicole, nodded to herself.

“In that case, there’s no reason for me to be here.”

“I wouldn’t recommend that,” the doctor’s alarm was clear in his voice. “You were in a very severe accident. You were unconscious for twenty-four hours.”

“Now I’ve spent another forty-eight hours being poked and prodded and scanned. Beyond my sight I’m fine. I can’t afford to stay here any longer and I don’t wish to. I’m going home.”

“The other driver has already agreed to pay your medical bills. Please let us monitor your condition for a while longer.”

“He’s only paying my bills so I won’t sue him for hitting me. I’m going home. Please bring me the forms to check out.”

The doctor sighed, but quickly realized that arguing would be ineffective.

“It’s your decision. Do you have a way to get home?”

Nicole was already searching the bedside table with her hands to find her clothes and cell phone.

“My sister’s old friend, Gerry, dated a blind girl once and he lives near me. He’ll know how to get me home.” As she found her phone, the doctor left. Nicole listed off her contacts to herself as she arrowed down to the name she wanted.

“Amanda, Ashley, Chris, CT, Dad, Drew, Gerry. Right button for options, three for text.”

Her fingers moved slowly over the keypad, feeling their way around as she typed out her message.

Are you in Tucson right now? And are you busy?

By that point, a nurse had returned with the paperwork. She was reading off the forms for Nicole to sign when the phone buzzed. Nicole easily opened the message and handed the phone to the nurse.

“It says, ”˜Yes and no. Why?’”

Again, her fingers moved slowly to spell out her message.

My car’s wrecked. Can you pick me up at the hospital? Room 324.

Fifteen minutes later, the forms were all signed, Nicole was dressed, and the answer had come. Of course. I’ll be there in half an hour.

Nicole passed the remaining time walking carefully around the room, feeling her way. She had a picture of the room in her mind when there was a knock on the door behind her.

“Nicky?” the voice asked, sounding concerned. “Are you alright? What happened?”

Nicole froze. She knew the voice and it wasn’t who she had expected. She didn’t turn around.

“Drew? Wha-what are you doing here?”

“You texted me,” the voice was even more concerned. “What happened, why are you here?”

“I thought I was texting Gerry,” Nicole whispered. “His name is after yours in my contacts.”

“Why him and not me?” the voice almost sounded hurt now. “I live closer to you.”

Because I like you and you made it clear that you don’t like me in return, so it hurts me to be near you, Nicole thought, biting her tongue to keep from crying. Instead, she took a deep breath and composed herself before turning to face her friend.

“Gerry’s worked with blind girls before.”

There was a shocked silence before footsteps approached her. Warm hands, callused from work, cupped her cheeks. He likes someone else, he’s told me all about her, she thought, struggling to keep her emotions in check. It helped that she could no longer see his strikingly bright blue eyes.

“Nicky, I’m so sorry. What happened?”

She told him the story of being T-boned by a drunk driver quickly, all the while acutely aware of the heat of his body and the soft smell of his cologne. You asked him out once and he turned you down. When she finished, he wrapped his arms around her tightly.

“I’m so sorry, hun. Do you want to stay with me while you get used to all this?”

Nicole’s stomach flipped with anxiety and excitement from being in his arms as her mind screamed at her not to read into it. He’s never once looked at you with anything more than friendship in his eyes. He still didn’t like her; this was only pity. Ignoring her own logic, she nodded. Drew squeezed her once more before letting go.

“Let’s go home.”

The next several weeks passed easily as Nicole quickly learned how to find her way around. Having grandparents with glaucoma meant she already knew Braille and had practice with how the blind feel their way with canes. She and Drew took turns trading between his couch and his bed, as neither would take the bed exclusively. They passed each night watching movies and television together, Drew describing to her what was happening on the screen. Nicole loved it, but felt sick every time she remembered that it was only pity. He’s smart and funny and cute; you wouldn’t deserve him.

Finally, Nicole knew she had no more reason to stay. Other than sadness over the lack of visual beauty in her new world, life had settled back to normalcy. With a heavy stone in her stomach she told Drew she was moving back to her apartment, hoping she wouldn’t be able to hear the relief in his voice. Now he’ll be able to date properly again. He’ll have privacy.

“I was thinking…” Drew slowly started, apprehension in his voice. “Maybe you could cancel your lease and move in with me?”

Nicole’s heart skipped a beat.

“Why would you want that?” her voice quavered. Drew stepped close and cupped her face as he had in the hospital. Nicole was trying to ignore the tantalizing feel of his rough skin against her smooth cheeks when she felt his lips press against hers briefly. She was too shocked to respond when she felt his breath against her ear.

“Because I’ve wanted to do that since we met,” he breathed. “You’re adorable. You can always make me laugh. You’re the kindest girl I’ve ever met, even when you’re around people who are rude to you. And you’re the only person I know who always has something brilliant to say. So say yes.”

Nicole placed her hands on Drew’s shoulders and slowly slid them up to find his face. Her fingers brushed against his cheeks to find his lips and she nodded, pushing up on her toes to meet his lips with her own.

Fireworks exploded behind her eyelids as she shared her first kiss with the first man she ever loved. For the first time since the accident, Nicole saw color.

The emergency room was silent. Dr. Jack Jeffries could hear the seconds hand noisily making its was around the clock; he could hear his heart beating faster as the seconds ticked by; he thought that just maybe he could even feel the adrenalin starting to pump around his body. It was moments like this that Jack lived for, why emergency medicine was his chosen career path.

The doors of the emergency room were flung wide open by a team of paramedics flying in with a trolley.

"What have we got?"

"Samantha Hewitt. Female. Mid-thirties. Open fracture, left tib and fib. She's lost a lot of blood."

Dr. Jeffries and his well-oiled machine of nurses sprang into action as the paramedic continued to reel off details of the patient's condition. His parting words, however, were ones that every ER doctor dreaded -

"And by the way Jack, she's a Jehovah's Witness."

In that instant, Jack's mind flashed back to his first year out of medical school, and the moment when his career in medicine had almost been over before it began. He recalled that fateful day in vivid Technicolor. He was on his surgery rotation, with his professor and mentor watching on. It was one moment of stupidity, naivety, a moment of madness that nearly ruined his lifetime ambition. Over the years he had rationalised it in his mind; after all he was an over-worked junior doctor on shift of twenty-two hours straight, his brain simply went into 'autopilot'. In reality it was an error on his part that he had not checked the patient's file. Jack winced as he recalled ordering the team to begin a blood transfusion. Had it not been for a somewhat overzealous student nurse wishing to impress chiming in with her timely comment about the patient's religion, he believed his time in the medical profession would have been over there and then.

After narrowly avoiding a potentially career wrecking but almost inevitable lawsuit, the newly qualified Dr. Jeffries had vowed never to make such a mistake again.

"I can't stem this bleeding. We need to get her to theatre now!" Jack's voice was firm, but belied a trace of anxiety.

The ER team continued with their usual bustle of activity while Sister Matthews made the relevant phone calls.

"All the theatres are full Dr. Jeffries; there were seven vehicles involved in the collision. Mr. Jackson is the only consultant not in theatre, he's on his way back from the golf course now."

"We can't wait, we have to amputate this leg; you are all going to scrub up now."

Every member of Jack's team had performed this procedure numerous times before, but still had feelings of apprehension, not least because they knew that Samantha, unlike most patients, could not be given blood. The leg was probably not damaged beyond repair, but Jack's diagnosis that her leg would be of no use to her if she were dead was accepted by all; at least if it were amputated the wound could be cauterised and the bleeding stemmed.

The team carefully but quickly began the procedure. Time was of the essence and was quickly running out.

Dr. Chambers was an extremely competent and experienced anaesthetist, renowned for her ability to remain calm in crisis situations. Jack felt fortunate to have her on board. When Dr. Chambers informed him that the patient's stats were dropping and she was losing blood rapidly, he knew he had to think and act quickly.

There was silence across the emergency room. Jack could hear the ticking of the clock, the beating of his heart and maybe even the turning of the cogs in his brain.

"We're losing her," Edith Chambers' voice remained firm and calm.

Jack took a deep breath before speaking.

"Let's get some blood into this patient before we lose her."

The entire team were silent for a second; all were aware of the possible ramifications.

"But..." began Edith, before being cut off in mid-sentence by Jack Jeffries.

"I am the senior doctor here. Just do it!"

***

Hours later, Dr. Jack Jeffries sat in the hospital boardroom explaining his actions to the board of directors and legal representatives. Samantha Hewitt had made it through surgery and was recovering well, but her husband was not too happy.

The words, "Who are you to play God with my wife’s life?" resonated in his ears.

The room was silent. The faint sound of the second hand marking the passing of time was drowned by the heavy beating of Jack's heart as he tried to rationalise the day's events.

"I was ten years old when my mother died," Jack began to address the assembly, "I watched helplessly as the life flowed from her body. I wanted to do something, but I did not know what. That was when I vowed to become a doctor. I had been brought up in the Christian faith, and at this time I questioned my faith; why had God taken my mother? It was many years later when a patient told me that it was God's will that I had been able to save her life that I finally knew the answer. It was not me who played God with Samantha Hewitt's life; it was God's choice. God decided that I should be a doctor; it was God's will that brought Samantha to my ER and it was His decision that I will always chose to save life, and would not leave Samantha's young children to grow up without a mother. In a similar situation would I do the same again? My answer will always be yes."

Dr. Jack Jeffries left the boardroom with a heavy heart. His future was in the hands of others, but this was not new. Ultimately his future would not be decided by hospital bureaucrats and lawyers, but like his past, would be decided by God.

Abigail placed the book on the counterpane and took off her spectacles for the last time. This would be her last night on earth. She knew it like an Eternal Truth. Her body told her so and her soul confirmed it. Tonight she would meet her Maker and answer for her many transgressions. But she wasn’t about to let Him off the hook too easily. She would have a few choice questions to ask!

When the doctor had called her in to give her the diagnosis, she guessed what was coming. At aged 86, she wasn’t surprised at being told she had cancer. What hit her hard was the duration of life left to her. Weeks, he had said. She had just weeks.

It had been a tiring rush to get her affairs sorted. Now Abigail lay back on her pillow and tried to sum up her life. She had often wondered why, despite great efforts to find profitable work and save, she had never achieved her lifelong dream of owning a small home of her own instead of the gloomy rented room she had lived in for most of her life.

Losing her first job early in life, through the much publicised fraud and embezzlement of others, she’d been tainted by association and thereafter found it difficult to get anything paying a worthwhile salary. She hadn’t exactly experienced starvation but she’d made do with just toast and black tea more often than she cared to remember. All this, she felt she could have endured with good humour if only God had allowed her to find a soul-mate; someone with whom to share her life … but this had never happened.

She’d lived too long. The few friends she’d made were now dead. The neighbours were professional people whose only form of communication was “Good Morning,” or “Good evening.” Sometimes they managed four words instead of two … “Good morning - lovely day,” and with that she’d see the back of their hand, raised in a gesture of goodbye.

She’d grown more tired with each passing day and, as the cancer made itself felt, she’d eventually had to take to her bed and be connected up to a machine doling out intermittent doses of morphine. Even her doctor had depleted her reserves by continually threatening to move her into hospital, and the fight to stay in her own home had tired her enormously. He worried about her lack of a support system. She gave him a key so that he or his nurse could gain access to check on her. She supposed that one day one of them would walk in and find her dead. She knew now that that would be tomorrow.

She smiled ruefully. A true love to comfort her and fluff her pillows now would be bliss; or maybe even a cat nestled into the bedclothes and purring contentedly would perhaps have comforted her with unconditional, living warmth at the end. She loved animals, but lease restrictions precluded her from owning a pet. Abigail would have to be content with having lived her life for others and not for herself.

The loneliness of her life, lived so stoically until now, suddenly overwhelmed her, but she refused to allow the tears to flow. Somehow it seemed to Abigail that her entire life had consisted of empty pockets and thwarted dreams. Yes – she most certainly had questions for God. She settled back into her pillow and closed her eyes. She felt the mist swirling in and knew it wouldn’t be long now.

***

St. Peter checked her in and told her that she was to wait in the transit area. “I see that you’ll be moving on quite quickly,” he said, sounding a little surprised.

Abigail was pleased to see that she wouldn’t be kept waiting, but was perplexed that none of her family had met her. She had always believed that the spirits of the dear departed met their loved ones upon arrival. She supposed they would meet her further along the processing system.

She kept remembering sins, almost forgotten in the midst of time. She had lived a long life, although she knew that by celestial standards this would be but the blink of an eye. Every sin counted. Not just the biggies, but the sins of omission, the lost temper, the disparaging remark - they all left a trace on Earth, often on the souls of others, and they had to be accounted for. Somehow, Abigail knew that every sin counted against something much more important than the legendary little black book Peter was supposed to keep tallied. It was a balancing act of some kind she seemed to remember.

An exquisitely shining angel called to collect her and she followed this spiritual being to another plane.

This was still not Heaven … and nor was she in the presence of her Maker. Abigail was getting a little testy.

“When will I see God?”

“You will make that decision, not I. In a short while you will acclimatise to this celestial level and I will then be able to restore your celestial memory. Until then, you will have to be patient,” explained this wondrous being in a tinkling, angelic, tone. “In the meantime, if you have questions, maybe I could answer them for you.”

“My questions are for God alone,” said Abigail, determined to have her day in the Judgement Halls of Heaven.

“Oh, but you won’t see God just yet,” sung the angel in a perfectly modulated pitch, which charmed and soothed Abigail, who started to feel such lightness that she felt she was floating away.

“Ah, you’ve acclimatised,” intoned the angel. “Now I can restore your celestial memory.”

The angel touched Abigail’s head very lightly and she was immediately transported into a refulgence of such radiance that she could hardly bear it.

Abigail immediately recognised that she was back as part of the whole that is the Supreme Energy of the Universe. She also now remembered that she had volunteered to live as Abigail Winthrall in poverty and alone so that she could do good works without corporal temptations.

The angel’s beatific smile reassured the spiritual being that used to be Abigail.

“How are we doing?” She asked the angel. “Are the celestial Heavens re-aligned yet?”

“Not yet,” replied her new angelic friend. “I’m afraid Lucifer rocked us very far from celestial equilibrium when he took you all with him. Not all of you have returned yet, so the restitution goes on.”

“Did I manage to bring any home?”

“Oh, yes, indeed! Through your endurance and good nature you made a great impression on several of our fallen. They, too, offered to go back and use example to bring home others.”

“Oh, dear,” replied Abigail. “It wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be. I must have got bitter at the end because I was going to complain to God about my lot on earth.”

The angel laughed. “That’s not surprising really. You have to forego your celestial memory and endure the tasks and deprivations you agree to without recourse to the knowledge that you have actually chosen them. Still, you came in with credits and you brought some fallen angels back to the fold. Choosing lifelong loneliness was a great hardship, Abigail. You did well.”

The angel grew serious. “Now, you can choose not to return to Earth, in which case you can go to meet your Maker. However, I have to ask you if you are prepared to soldier on in the quest to bring back more fallen angels? We need to bring them all Home in order to complete the Celestial Heavens?”

“Oh, yes … we have to bring everyone Home,” replied Abigail. “Even Lucifer.”

“Yes,” smiled the angel, “Even our Prodigal Son. What rejoicing in the Heavens with that glorious Homecoming!”

“Will he come?”

“He loses power with each fallen angel who returns, so mankind’s intrinsic goodness will ensure his return Home eventually. The parable tells it true. Now … what burdens will you accept this time, my child,” enquired the angel.

“Well, now I think of it, I had a perfectly reasonable home with a roof and a warm bed last time, I think I can move up a spiritual notch, don’t you?”

“So you would accept homelessness?”

“Yes.”

“In Africa? Remember, there are no welfare benefits there.”

“I accept.”

“You could move up a further spiritual notch if you accept the disease of Aids as well.”

Abigail was now pure spirit so it was easy for her to accept – knowing it was all in the cause of righting the Heavens. She just hoped her spiritual reserve as a human would hold out without falling again into the trap of bitterness and resentment.

The angel must have sensed Abigail’s deepest fear. “You know, somewhere – deep in the soul of every human being – is the merest inkling of the celestial memory. Some call it the Universal Knowledge. Some just recognise that no burden is given that cannot be borne. You’ll remember if you want to.”

“You mean that this time I’ll remember that I’ve actually chosen that life for myself? Is it at all possible that one poor Aids-ridden, homeless African can remember that their suffering is being borne to bring Home some fallen comrades?”

The angel smiled. “You won’t remember it quite like that. It’s more of a feeling. It raises questions in you. Questions like, ”˜Why am I here? What’s the meaning of life? What difference do I make in the world? Do you remember asking yourself those questions?”

“Yes, I most certainly do,” Abigail laughingly replied.

“Most people who ask these questions, and think about them earnestly, usually go on to equate it with living life to the best of their ability - living an ethical existence; an altruistic existence, or one of love for humanity if you like. It is this sort of lifestyle which attracts our repentant fallen angels back Home. If your example can trigger just one fallen angel to follow this road home, then your spirit accrues a higher celestial strength. Remember, love is the most powerful energy in the world. It uplifts, it encourages, it embraces, it warms, it reaches right into the soul ... it brings mankind as close to God as can be reached on Earth.”

“Right,” said Abigail. “I’ll try to remember. Is that it?”

“Would you accept being male this time round?”

Abigail laughed. Homeless in Africa with Aids, and the angel had added male as being the bottom of the pile!

“Oh, go on … why not?”

The laughing angel touched Ngula Anjolo lightly on the forehead just before he was born to an African girl of 15-years of age who was dying of Aids.

Scene: sparse hospital room with four beds. One woman is on each, all clad in the same hospital robes. All are bald. Enter Med Student.

Med Student: Hi everybody, thank you for your voluntary participation in this medical trial. As you likely know, we are currently testing some new therapies for breast cancer patients, and you were all chosen for your similar circumstances. Each of you are in stage three of the cancer, are of the same age, and chemotherapy was ineffective in each case. In about ten minutes, we’ll be calling you in one by one to do some preliminaries, it’s nothing much, but it is vital for the research component of these tests. You can choose amongst yourselves who can go first, I’ll be back in ten. Exit Med Student.

Uneasy silence.

Mary: Anybody care to go first? No response from anybody except for a cough. So, if we’re going to be together we should at least know each other’s names. I’m Mary, from Ann Arbor.

Anna: I’m Anna. I’m from just across the border, Windsor.

Vera: Vera, from across the other border, Lima, Ohio.

Neng: Oh… local Detroit girl. I’m Neng.

Mary: Now we’re getting somewhere. What’s your story, why are you here? I’ll even start. I don’t have any family left really, just me. I’m not leaving anybody behind by coming into the lab to live for however long, so nothing to lose.

Anna: I feel like I need to help. Breast cancer killed my mother, it killed my grandmother, probably killed the generations before that as well, so with that family history, I want to help find a cure before my daughter comes of age.

Neng: Not much else to do. We didn’t have the resources to just keep trying chemotherapy, so when this opportunity came up at a free chance… better than burdening the family if it turns out hopeless anyway.

Vera: Its God’s will that I’m here. When the chemotherapy failed, I was afraid for myself and my family. Then I was approached, and I knew that it was God’s messenger asking me to give my life for a greater cause.

Anna: God is great, eh? Nothing like a case of breast cancer to prove his goodness.

Neng: That was unnecessary. How old is your daughter, Anna?

Vera: interrupting Anna from replying Excuse me, I know that some people find faith silly, but it’s been my guiding hope and I hope you at least have the civility to respect that.

Anna: She’s twelve, thank you Neng, and respect for religion is one of the things holding us back. If we put aside our silly superstitions and focused all that belief and energy on caring for humans instead, the world wouldn’t have half of its current problems.

Vera: And I suppose that all the religious charities, the volunteer work done by people who believe in serving man to serve God, the commandments that keep life civil, none of these ever did a thing for mankind.

Anna: People who believe in serving man just to serve man would have gone above and beyond that, and they wouldn’t have started millennia of religious wars and persecutions in the process.

Mary: Come on now, I know that this is stressful but we don’t need to take it out on each other.

Vera: Am I not supposed to defend my beliefs? They’ve been what have protected me in the past.

Anna: From reality.

Vera: Neng, Mary, somebody back me up here, this is uncalled for.

Neng: Don’t pull me into this.

Mary: Yes, please don’t escalate this, let it go. Can’t we just get to know each other?

Vera: Well isn’t a person’s faith one of their defining attributes? Come on Neng, what do you think?

Neng: I’m not on either side here, I have no business in this debate.

Vera: Don’t you believe, or do you?

Neng: It’s not as simple as that.

Anna: It’s obvious she’s agnostic, she won’t back you up because she can’t.

Vera: But she won’t back you up either because she knows there’s something more to life.

Neng: If you have to know, just to keep you from guessing, I’m Buddhist actually.

Anna: Oh… I’m sorry to have assumed.

Vera: But you believe in something higher than man. You have to admit that what Anna’s been going on about has been an outright attack.

Neng: Just because I believe in something doesn’t mean I have to take your side. My family has had nothing but trouble for our beliefs, always being preached to and misunderstood.

Anna: My point exactly, religious differences just give the majority a reason to oppress the minorities.

Neng: And not my point at all. Can’t you just leave me alone?

Vera: Alright, let her be Anna.

Anna: Me?!

Vera: Mary, what about you?

Mary: Will you two drop this if I can talk about my beliefs just casually?

Anna: Alright, I agree, let’s just try to chat.

Vera: I still feel slighted by all this, but I’ll turn the other cheek.

Mary: Good enough. I was brought up Mormon but haven’t been back to the church in ages, so I suppose I’m non-practicing. I just never could wrap my head around the dogma, it seemed like belief should be enough, but usually it wasn’t. I guess I still consider myself a Mormon, but I don’t believe in many of the same things any longer. Neng, can you tell us about yourself?

Neng: I’m Hmong, my parents came over here in seventy-six, and I was born soon after. They were always more devoutly Buddhist, but it never played much of a role in my life until I was diagnosed. I guess I always kind of believed in karma, but I never spent much time thinking about it until recently.

Anna: Both my parents were atheist at first, but my father converted back when I was eleven, and they got divorced a few years later. I lived with my mom from that point forward. She passed away while I was in college.

Vera: I used to not be very religious, in fact you could say I even flirted with atheism for a while in my teen years, but when I had a child of my own, it all came at once really. It’s been a major factor in my life since, and it’s given me direction and hope in this my valley of doubt. Uneasy silence resumes for some time. Do we really have nothing to say when we’re not belittling each other?

Anna: I do apologize, I didn’t need to be sarcastic about your beliefs. It’s just been… an unsettling couple of months for me.

Vera: I apologize too, especially to Neng and Mary for trying to drag you into it. Thinking about… about what comes after, it’s not pleasant. I can’t imagine facing it as an atheist.

Anna: I’ve had my attacks of doubt, for sure, but I won’t change my tune now. Sometimes I even find comfort in the idea that consciousness can end and take suffering with it, and that it won’t be there to miss itself.

Neng: That almost sounds Buddhist. Consciousness is suffering, and it won’t end here. I never really listened to my parents talk about their faith, but I see their words in the readings I’ve been doing lately. I remember being told that we make our own suffering, but that we should rejoice in that. I didn’t understand then, but now I know that that means each thing we suffer is a debt being paid for suffering we’ve once inflicted. To accumulate better karma, the old, bad karma must be first repaid.

Vera: I can’t say I understand karma, but I know the burden of sin. And I’m happy for having Jesus to help me relieve it.

All look at Mary. She hesitates.

Mary: I… I don’t know. I’m still terrified of… of…

Doors suddenly burst open, enter Med Student

Med Student: Alright, so who wanted to go first?

Mary: Can we all go at once?

All: What?

Mary: We all have different beliefs, but we all hope to beat this and by doing so to help others find their cure. Hope is strongest when it’s shared by many. I may have just met you, but today you’re all my sisters, and I won’t be afraid if I can share every step with you. Exit Mary.

One by one, the other women get up and follow. Exit Anna, Neng, and Vera. Med Student follows after. Lights go out, but curtain does not close.

2010

I stymied a chuckle between bites of my sandwich. It was nearly 10:40 p.m. and we were roaring with laughter. An Airman chimed in, “Wallis, you’re not really going to eat that third KFC Double Down, are you?...I mean, don’t hurt yourself.”

I knew I had to make good on the promise. Killing time on another long night shift, we had declared an absurd challenge: Who could eat more than anyone else within 10 minutes? Everyone was looking at me now, and since the stakes were high on the field of nonsense, I didn’t want the rest of the night to be anticlimactic. Despite my best go, two sandwiches and a few paltry bites of the last gut-bomb was all I could bring myself to eat. After the room exploded into laughter, I excused myself to go wash up. Naturally, there was some good-natured ribbing and sarcastic applause on my way out the door.

THOCK, thock, THOCK. My footsteps echoed in the lonesome hallway, dimly lit by energy-saving bulbs that gave off about as much warmth as a frigid lover. At least camaraderie was high tonight, I thought to myself. Perhaps the shift would fly by? I pulled my cell-phone from the cubby. No new text messages, two voice-mails. COMMAND: Call Voice-mail.

The androgynous operator finished announcing the time, and immediately a lump began to form in my throat.

8:47 p.m. New Message. “Brandon, this is Chris, I need you to call me right away, it’s important man.”

8:53 p.m. New Message. “Brandon, call me right away, it’s about Monty, we’re at the hospital.”

I leaned against a doorway. My son, my son, oh God no, my son. What is wrong with my son? He’s in another state, I’m at work, is there something serious going on? Why did Chris call? Why did he call twice? Why was his voice cracking? What, what, wh….?

“Is something wrong, Wallis?” A coworker spotted me from an adjacent break room, and his brows furrowed as he puzzled at the look of distress on my face.

“My son, my son, something…” I leaned against a doorway for support, and tried to reach Chris to no avail. Again. Again. Finally, my phone rang through.

“Brandon, you need to get here, man. Monty’s hurt. I, I, …Monty’s hurt. [My world began to reel.] Just come.”

“Chris, what’s wrong, tell me.”

“I don’t know the whole story, I’d rather you hear it from them. (THEM?) You need to get down here as soon as you can.” CLICK.

“Wallis, have a seat.” The coworker walked me to the nearest chair and ushered me to sit, then ran down the hall to grab a supervisor. My brain surged violently, as time both fast-forwarded and paused with staggering halts…my stream of thought a jumbled ball of yarn.

I would have to leave, cram effects into a night bag at the house while the vehicle idled. A 10-hour drive…perhaps would flying be faster….no, not enough red-eyes available in the area. Enough manning to have someone able to drive me? Not likely. Monty. Monty. Monty.

I had to find out what was wrong. Once I reached a doctor by phone, which occurred at some point during the night, keywords constructed a horrifying crossword puzzle: The New York Post’s Nightmare Edition.

Son. Hurt. Trauma. Come. Uncertainty. Police. Coma. Custody. Brain. Response. Come. Come. Victim.

"I have to leave. My son is hurt." I recall somber shaking heads, and my keys shaking in my grasp. Somehow, fueled by caffeine, rage, fear, and anguish…I arrived at the hospital parking lot.

2011

A year has passed. Daily, I remember those events and the diagnosis of my son. He would be four this year. A visceral flaming poker stabs my heart every time I pass the children’s section of Target, or get an invite to a baby shower. I overhear coworkers at my new unit laugh. Accomplishments of their children bring smiles as they share fatherly advice. Father. Am I a father, now? I was a father. What is a father without a son?

At the courthouse, I stare at the back of his alleged murderer’s head.

JACKSON, Miss. -- Montgomery Beauregard Wallis "Monty Beau," age 3, of Shaw Air Force Base, was born March 10, 2007, and died surrounded by family on June 2, 2010, at the University of Mississippi Medical Center in Jackson.

The darkness has descended on me like the waves on the shore. I keep telling myself ”˜be strong, push through’ but the darkness seems never ending.

My mind keeps dragging me back to that doctors surgery, the anticipation, the smell of cleanliness entering my nostrils like an unwelcome visitor. I’ve known my life to be over for a long time, worthless, completed. I’ve felt my body craving the grave, thought about the macabre session that people would call my funeral. Oh yes, I’ve thought about that event over and over in my mind. Well...hasn’t everyone? Who would come, who would cry, who did you never realise cared so much? But that is not where my mind is now. My mind is in that god awful place. The place that ruins my hopes, my dreams, my struggle against the never ending darkness.

Looking around the room I like to play a game with myself. Guess who has what. I think of myself as some sort of doctor, diagnosing the general populous. The man sitting next to me is old. The pipe smoke lingering on his beige jacket is welcome to me, anything to escape the cleanliness. I move a little closer and he begins to cough. Maybe he has a chest infection...maybe pneumonia... maybe something really contagious. I do not edge away, maybe I will catch it then at least my end will be quick. You see, I’m pretty sure I have a brain tumour. I’m more than sure. I have to have one, there is no other way. So here I am, waiting to be called in to the room and be told that my life is over.

A family walk past. The mother looks tired, sleep exhaustion? Her children don’t look so bad although I’m pretty sure that they have recently had chicken pox, I can see the fading marks on their skin. They say it’s better to have it young, although they never say why. I never had children. At that moment I started to wonder about it. If I had children would my thoughts what is about to happen be any different? Who knows. Maybe things would have been different. My thoughts go back to the funeral...a couple of red haired children with my eyes crying over my grave. The thought makes me sad but not for the right reasons so I stop thinking about it.

I’m religious you know. Well, not really religious but enough so that I’m scared. The thought of going to hell also plays on my mind. A lot plays on my mind, although I guess that’s obvious. Hell is what I fear the most. More than anything. That’s why I am here. The doctor calls my name over the tannoy. So impersonal, but then I guess they are busy people. I look at my watch. Four minutes late, that’s not to bad. Once I was in here waiting for two hours. I slowly get up from my seat and the man next to me smiles before pulling out an old handkerchief to cough into. I take a deep breath and walk down the corridor to room number three. I know this is this is the right room because I’ve been here before but they also say it over the tannoy when they call you. I enter the room and sit down. The doctor smiles at me but I don’t smile back. ”˜Here for your test results I see....Well.....’

The world slows down whenever you waiting for something important, have you noticed? You are acutely aware of everything around you but most of all you are aware of your heartbeat. The thing that keeps you alive that you never really listen to, beating so hard in your chest you feel as though you cannot breath.

”˜Please....please....just say it...just give me some release....’

”˜Well I am glad to say that your test results came back negative, you are as fit as a fiddle!’

The darkness rushes over me and the room seems to turn grey. I just want to die.