He woke up to unfamiliar shadows scattered across the room. From somewhere below a droning hum emanated. Where the hell am I? he thought, wiping the crust from his eyes. How did I get here?

He searched for a light next to his bed. Was it his bed? Was it even his room? He couldn't remember. It was like there was a frosted pane of glass between his thoughts and his memory. He turned to his side in search for a source of light. His hand slid onto something smooth and tall, like a vase. His fingers crawled up its side, finding a metal apparatus tucked inside of the cloth shield ringing around the outside. He fumbled for a switch. Click. The lights came on, but the frosted pane remained.

It was a hotel room, all right. He could tell by the cheap curtains covering the window and the tacky lampshade his hand had been groping under. There was also an ashtray sitting on a table near the window, and he knew he didn't smoke. At least, he didn't think he smoked.

He pulled the shoddily sewn comforter off his body and swiveled out of bed. The air felt cold and stale, like nothing had moved in the room for ages. Something felt odd. He tried to stand, but it was as if the bed was 15 feet from the ground, and he fell to the floor, hitting his head on the nightstand.

It felt like he hadn't budged in years. He was the Tin Man without his oil; his joints creaking and shuddering with every move he attempted to make. He slapped his shins and tried shaking them into movement. "Move, damn you!" he yelled in frustration.

But screaming at his legs didn't help. He hoisted his body forward and gave his best effort to crawl across the floor. The thin, faded carpet scraped against his useless legs. He noticed the feeling in them was starting to come back. The friction of the course fibers rubbing against his skin caused a delightful burn along the entire length of his shins. Finally, he reached the table and pulled himself onto the chair. He was panting heavily. Not only did the Tin Man have no heart; he had no lungs either.

He continued to slap his legs, trying to get them moving again. Why weren't they moving? How long had he been lying in that bed? Days? Weeks? Months? Years? He'd read about muscle atrophy in coma patients before, but was this it? It couldn't be. He could feel the blood rushing down into his calves. He flexed his muscles and they moved. Well, that's progress, he thought, continuing to flex.

Soon he became adventurous and decided to try and lift his legs. His left foot left the carpet and started to rise. He could feel the tension forming at the bottom of his thigh, but that only meant it was working. Up with the other foot. Slowly but surely it reached the same altitude. He lifted his arms out to keep balance. He felt like a trapeze artist balancing on a wire, one wrong move and he would fall. He rotated his ankles, gaining speed and control over his muscles again, keeping his eye on the oak door on the other side of the room for inspiration. Once he could move, he would get out of that damn room and figure out where he was.

His legs fell to the floor, sending a shockwave up to his hips. Then came the moment of truth. He leaned forward, placing his hand on the table, and went for it. With all of his might, he stood up. A melody of cracks and pops sounded from his spine as it moved for the first time in what seemed like forever. He wobbled and stumbled, trying to stay afloat. You've learned how to walk before, you can do it again! he thought, encouraging himself to take the first step. Cautiously, he lifted his left foot and moved it forward slightly, easing it back down again when he had moved it far enough. He took great care in how he put his foot down, as if there were shards of glass strewn across the gray carpet.

Success! He managed to stay standing with the first step, so on with the second. Before he could even think of moving his right foot, his muscles began to feel like they were turning to goo. He felt as if he couldn't move anymore, let alone stay standing. So he leaned backward, hoping the chair was close enough to catch him. The wood of the chair caught the impact of his fall, almost cracking from the immense pressure. "Time for a breather." he sighed, closing his eyes and leaning his head back into the chair.


A red light flickered on the panel. The head nurse noticed it flashing from the corner of her eye. She saw what room it came from. "Room 18?" she stammered, "That can't be!" She leapt from her chair and ran for the others. "Nancy, Charolette, Alice... Anyone! Room 18, now!"

Nancy looked up from her station. "Anne, what's going on?"

"The emergency light for 18 is on!"

"That's impossible. How could that be?"

"I don't know. Just come with me."

Nancy leapt from her station and followed Anne down the green-tiled corridor to the room at the end of the hall. The large oak door was closed. Anne couldn't hear anything unordinary coming from inside. She slowly opened the door, trying to adjust her eyes to the harsh contrast of the dark inside and the lights from outside. "Mr. Harrison?" Nancy called, creeping her way slowly into the room behind Anne.

Anne flipped the light-switch and the room became illuminated. White walls, white floors, white shades, no TV, no radio, not even flowers. His family had stopped bringing them once the doctors said he would most likely never wake up. The monotonous pulse of the life-support machine beside him was the only sound in the room. It's gray, metal exterior housed hundreds of gadgets and gizmos that kept the man's brain from turning to mush. It was the only thing alive in the room.

"Well?" said Nancy.

"He hasn't moved an inch since I last checked him. I don't get it." said Anne, walking over to his bedside and depressing the panic button.

"Maybe it was just a glitch."

"Maybe. But I just wanted to make sure. Go check the other rooms, make sure that the signals weren't crossed."

Nancy left the room, leaving Anne with Mr. Harrison, alone. She looked at his pale face and brushed away the strands of hair that were matted on his forehead. "Just what were you up to, James?"