“Hey, Dawson, how are you doing?” she grimaced at her own choice of words “Well obviously not so great . . . . you’re gonna have to bear with me, okay? I’m not used to seeing you so . . .” Joey stumbled over the words, trying unsuccessfully to keep back tears which threatened to spill from her eyes “Umm, the nurse suggested I should maybe read to you, ‘cause sometimes when you’re in a coma, you can hear what’s going on around you,” she picked up the newspaper which lay on his bedside table and began skimming it “Okay, some farmer has invented a new kind of insecticide . . .” Joey paused and then skipped over the article. She doubted that if she were in a coma, she’d want to hear about the latest agricultural developments, however revolutionary they were. “What else . . . . oh, this is just lovely. A bloke apparently killed his best friend’s wife and ate her thighs with pasta. Ewww, I think we can do without that . . .”

Joey flicked through the newspaper a while longer, unceremoniously rejecting stories to read. Finally she settled on one proclaiming the conspiracy theory of furbies. She was halfway through the article, which detailed how many people believed furbies were being used as spies to repeat back what was heard during top-secret board meetings, when she noticed a change in her surroundings.

The steady beep beep beep which emanated from the heart-rate monitor above Dawson’s bed was rapidly speeding up. The thin, green line on it’s screen was going hay-wire; it’s previous regular pattern replaced by a furiously rising and falling rhythm. Joey’s fist slammed down against the red panic button, but it was too late. She watched in horror as the green line straightened out, leaving a perfectly horizontal vector and a long, high-pitched tone which was still audible above her hysterical screams.