There was no response. I hadn’t honestly been expecting one. Turning my back on the mirror, I walked to the bed and settled into a cross-legged position atop the mattress, closing my eyes. And then I started waiting. There was still no mechanism in the room for marking time, but if anyone was watching me—and someone had to be watching me—this might be a big enough change in my behavior to get their attention. I wanted their attention. I wanted their attention really, really badly. Almost as badly as I wanted an MP3 recorder, an Internet connection, and a bathroom.
After I’d been waiting for what felt like hours but, again, might have just been minutes, the need for a bathroom had crept substantially higher on that list, as had the need for a drink of water. The fact that the human body can demand both of these things at the same time is proof that evolution has no erase button.
I was beginning to consider the possibility that I might need to somehow cover the mirror with one of the blankets while I used a corner of the room as a lavatory when the intercom clicked on again. “Miss Mason? Are you awake?”
“Yes,” I said, without opening my eyes. “Do I get a name to call you by?”
He ignored my question like it didn’t matter. Maybe it didn’t, to him. “I apologize for going silent before. We were a little surprised by your vehemence. We’d expected a slightly longer period of disorientation.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Oh, we weren’t disappointed,” the voice said, hurriedly. It was a male voice, with the faintest traces of a Midwestern accent. I couldn’t place the state, but I knew I’d never heard it before. “I promise you, we’re thrilled to see you up and coherent so quickly. It’s a wonderful indicator for your recovery.”
“A glass of water and a trip to the ladies’ room would do a lot more to help my recovery than a bunch of apologies and evasions.”
Now the voice sounded faintly abashed. “I’m so sorry, Miss Mason. We didn’t think… Just a moment.” The intercom clicked off again, leaving me in silence once again. I stayed where I was, and kept on waiting.
A new sound intruded on my silence: the hiss of a hydraulic lock unsealing itself. I opened my eyes, turning my head to see a small panel slide open above the door, revealing a single red light. The hissing continued, and the door, at long last, swung inward, revealing a skinny, nervous-looking man in a long white lab coat. He was holding his clipboard against his chest like he thought it afforded him some sort of protection, and his eyes were wide behind the lenses of his glasses.
“Miss Mason? If you’d like to come with me, I’d be happy to escort you to the restroom.”
“Thank you.” I unfolded my legs, ignoring the protest of pins and needles in my calves, and walked toward the man in the doorway. He didn’t quite cringe as I approached, but he definitely shied back, looking more profoundly uneasy with every step I took in his direction. Interesting.
“We do apologize for making you wait,” he said. His words had the distinct cadence of something recited by rote, like telephone tech support asking for your ID and computer serial number. “There were just a few things that had to be taken care of before we could proceed.”
“Let’s worry about that after I get to the bathroom, okay?” I sidestepped around him, out into the hall, and stopped as I found myself looking at three hospital orderlies in blue scrubs, each of them pointing a pistol in my direction. I put my hands up, palms outward. “Okay, okay, I get it. I can wait for my escort.”
“That’s probably for the best, Miss Mason,” said the nervous man, whose voice I now recognized from the intercom. It just took me a moment, without the filtering speakers between us. “We’re all a bit jumpy right now. I’m sure you understand.”
“Yeah. Sure.” I lowered my hands as I fell into step behind the nervous man. The orderlies followed us down the hall, their aim never wavering. I did my best not to make any sudden moves. Having just returned to the land of the living, I was in no mood to exit it again before I had a few answers about what, exactly, was happening. “Am I ever going to get something I can call you?”
“Ah…” His mouth worked for a moment without a sound escaping before he said, “I’m Dr. Thomas. I’ve been one of your attending physicians since you first arrived at this facility. I’m not surprised that you don’t remember me. You’ve been sleeping for some time.”
“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” The hall we were walking along was built along the model I’ve come to expect from CDC facilities, with nothing breaking the sterile white of the walls but the occasional door and the associated one-way mirrors that looked into patient-holding rooms. All of them were empty.
“You’re walking well.”
“It’s a skill.”
“How’s your head? Any disorientation, blurred vision, confusion?”