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I shuffle along the wall, using my back for support as much as my feet. The arms constantly reach for me but I stay out of range.
I pant and wheeze. I feel like I’ve run a marathon. Maybe I have a lung infection? Maybe I’m in isolation for my own protection?
I finally make it to the ladder. I stumble forward and grab one of the rungs. I’m just so weak. How am I going to climb a 10-foot ladder?
Ten-foot ladder.
I think in imperial units. That’s a clue. I’m probably an American. Or English. Or maybe Canadian. Canadians use feet and inches for short distances.
I ask myself: How far is it from L.A. to New York? My gut answer: 3,000 miles. A Canadian would have used kilometers. So I’m English or American. Or I’m from Liberia.
I know Liberia uses imperial units but I don’t know my own name. That’s irritating.
I take a deep breath. I hang on to the ladder with both hands and put my foot on the bottom rung. I pull myself up. It’s a shaky process, but I get it done. Both feet are on the lower rung now. I reach up and grab the next rung. Okay, making progress. I feel like my whole body is made of lead—everything is so much effort. I try to pull myself up, but my hand just isn’t strong enough.
I fall backward off the ladder. This is going to hurt.
It doesn’t hurt. The robot arms catch me before I hit the ground because I fell into grabbing range. They don’t miss a beat. They return me to bed and settle me in like a mother putting her child to sleep.
You know what? This is fine. I’m really tired at this point and lying down kind of works for me. The gentle rocking of the bed is comforting. Something bugs me about how I fell off the ladder. I replay it in my head. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s just a…“wrongness” to it.
Hmm.
I drift off.
—
“Eat.”
There’s a toothpaste tube on my chest.
“Huh?”
“Eat,” the computer says again.
I lift the tube. It’s white with black text that readsDAY1—MEAL1.
“The heck is this?” I say.
“Eat.”
I unscrew the cap and smell something savory. My mouth waters at the prospect. Only now do I realize how hungry I am. I squeeze the tube and disgusting-looking brown sludge comes out.
“Eat.”
Who am I to question a creepy robot-armed computer overlord? I cautiously lick the substance.
Oh my God it’s good! It’s so good! It’s like thick gravy but not too rich. I squeeze more straight into my mouth and savor it. I swear it’s better than sex.
I know what’s going on here. They say hunger is the greatest seasoning. When you’re starving, your brain rewards you handsomely for finally eating.Good job,it says,we get to not die for a while!
The pieces fall into place. If I was in a coma for a long time, I must have been getting fed. I didn’t have an abdominal tube when I woke up, so it was probably feeding me with an NG tube running down my esophagus. It’s the least-intrusive way to feed a patient who can’t eat but has no digestion issues. Plus, it keeps the digestive system active and healthy. And it explains why the tube wasn’t around when I woke up. If possible, you should remove an NG tube while the patient is still unconscious.
Why do I know that? Am I a doctor?
I squeeze another shot of gravy-goo into my mouth. Still delicious. I gobble it down. Soon the tube is empty. I hold it up. “More of this!”
“Meal complete.”
