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motion, wheels bumping over uneven spots on the floor. Acoustical ceiling
     and fluorescents passing overhead. Automatic door noise, and then…
    Fresh air. Cool and faintly salt-tinged.
    I’m outside!
    Another voice: “We’ll take her from here.” A face appeared above me—male, smooth, young. “Ms. McCone,” he said, “if you can
     hear me, I’m Andy with the Sequoia Ambulance Service. We’re taking you to the Brandt Neurological Institute.”
    Oh, right. Where Hy told the doctor he was having me transferred.
The terror subsided, and I blinked my eyelids, but Andy had looked away. “It’s only a twenty-minute trip,” he added, “and
     we’ll try to make you as comfortable as possible.”
    Why does he sound as if he doesn’t believe I can understand a word he says?
    Will somebody please look at me and see I’m still here?
    Weariness washed over me and I slept.
    Cool light. Blue walls. Scent of fresh-cut flowers. A window. And beyond it a thick stand of eucalyptus.
    I love eucalyptus. I wish the window were open so I could smell them. But this floral scent… what… ?
    I tried to look around, but from the way the bed was positioned I couldn’t see much more of the room. Looked up. Suspended
     from the overhead track was a stainless steel contraption that looked like an elaborate, multi-barbed fishhook. An IV bag
     was suspended from it, as well as a container of a brownish liquid.
    Alone? Yes, I can tell by the quality of the silence.
    Tired. So tired. Was it yesterday that Hy said it had been ten days? Ten whole days since I’d been in a coma, then weak and
     helpless?
    No, admit it—paralyzed.
    But not in a coma. I can think, see, hear, breathe, and feel. I just can’t move or speak.
    Just? That’s everything!
    Got to find some way to let them know.
    Got to!
    Someone coming into the room. Hand on my forehead. Hy.
    “We’re at the Brandt Institute, McCone,” he said. “I just met your new neurosurgeon. They’re going to do everything they can
     to help you.”
    Don’t stand over to the side. Look at my face!
    “It’s a nice place, out on Jackson Street, near the Presidio. Nice people, too.”
    Look at me, dammit!
    “First thing tomorrow they’re going to run some more brain scans and try to get an accurate diagnosis. Then…” He fell silent
     for a few seconds.
    “Hell, McCone, if you could hear me, you’d know I’m clutching at straws here. There’s so much they don’t know about the brain,
     and I know even less. God, I can’t…”
    He was crying. I’d seldom known him to cry.
    He moved around, bent over, and buried his face on my shoulder. His body shook and his tears wet my hospital gown. I wanted
     to hold him, and I couldn’t move. Comfort him, and I had no words.
    After a moment, he raised his head and looked straight into my eyes.
    I blinked at him, moved my eyes up and down.
    He drew back, astonishment and hope brightening his drawn features. Gently he reached out to touch my face.
    “You’re here with me!” he said.
    I blinked again.
    “You can hear me. See me.”
    Blink.
    “Can you move?”
    I decided two blinks would mean no.
    “Can you talk to me?”
    Blink, blink.
    “Doesn’t matter. You’re on your way back. I’m getting your doctor.”
    Thank God. I knew I could count on you, Ripinsky.
    But what the hell took you so long?

RAE KELLEHER
    S he propped her right elbow on the desk and lowered her forehead to the palm of her hand. Her eyes ached and pain needled above
     her brow. Through the open doorway of her study she could hear her stepdaughters, Molly and Lisa, squabbling downstairs over
     which DVD to watch. She wouldn’t interfere. Let them duke it out—that was her parenting philosophy. Prepare them ahead of
     time for the often rocky shoals of life.
    She took several deep breaths. The throbbing stopped. She raised her head and fumbled in the desk drawer for eyedrops. They
     soothed the ache.
    She raised her head and stared out the window to the