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relieved that no one else is here to share the space.
    “Which bed would you like?”
    “Neither. I want my own room.”
    The EMT, staring at you blankly, looks clueless.
    “I’ll take the upgrade—the one with the view by the window.”
    No answer.
    The EMTs are getting ready to leave. Jim is nowhere in sight.
    “Please,” you say to them, before they vanish. “Don’t.”
    One of the guys leaves, like you didn’t say anything at all. But the squat, pleasant-looking fellow who drove the ambulance through every available pothole stops and turns to look at you. “Don’t what?” he asks.
    “Don’t leave me here. It’s a mistake, I’m not supposed to be here,” you answer.
    He looks at you like you’re joking. But you’re pretty sure you’re not.
    He’s gone.
    You’re alone.

Click Your Heels Three Times and Press the Call Button
    IN ADDITION TO THE MISPLACED lighting fixture, the room has putrid mint green walls and an exhausted pink linoleum floor.
    The bed on which you have been placed boasts a thin, sagging mattress covered by two threadbare sheets that now envelop you carelessly. It is late July, and even at dusk, the room is broiling.
    You press the call button. A black box above your head crackles loudly.
    A voice buzzes: “What do you need?”
    “It’s really hot.”
    The voice buzzes again: “Sorry. Can’t change it.”
    One stroke isn’t enough, now you’re going to have another—a heat stroke. You press the call button again.
    The black box squawks: “Yes.”
    You shout, “Is this purgatory or hell? Or are you the Wizard of Oz in there, in that speaking box? And if you’re the Great Oz, I want to go home .”
    Silence.
    You weep. Time passes. You have no idea how much of it, but it passes.
    When an aide arrives at your bedside, you say, “I was beginning to think humans didn’t really work here. What do you think of cranking the air conditioner up a notch, please?”
    In a robot move she turns her back to you. You think she must be adjusting some settings somewhere, but instead she opens up the window. Yeah, that’s just what you needed. Now you can smell the auto exhaust, hear the road rage of the southeast expressway, and still be just as hot.
    “You should have someone bring you a fan, because that’s how patients deal with the heat here.”
    “What? Have somebody bring in a fan for me—you’re kidding, right? What is this, a hospital or a homeless shelter? This place charges more per day than the Ritz-Carlton and you’re telling me you have no way to control the temperature?”
    The aide leaves.
    Jim still isn’t here. Maybe they were lying about him following the ambulance after all.
    It’s you and the black box. Period.
    You press the call button.
    Nothing happens.
    You glare at the black box. You press the call button again.
    Silence.
    Empty hall.
    So much for the orientation process at this hospital. Patient care resides in a little black box over your head.
     
    TWO WEEKS EARLIER, you had been power walking, managing multiple projects, and performing a dizzying variety of physical and mental tasks. Now it’s two in the morning and you’re sprawled in a heap, kissing the foul, deadly pink linoleum floor in a rehab hospital.
    Why did this happen? If you think hard, you are pretty sure you can reassemble this sequence of events. Got it—it happened because during a potty transfer, you leaned forward to take a sip of water from a cup that was directly in front of you. The floor is furious; your face aches from it. And now, as you lie in a pile on the floor, the aide is reprimanding you, too.
    “That was impulsive ,” says the aide.
    “No,” you say, “that wasn’t impulsive.”
    “Whatever,” says the aide.
    “Fuck you sideways ,” you say, biting off the words, with your mouth pressed against the floor. “Pick me up .”
    “I beg your pardon,” says the aide.
    “Now that ,” you say, pronouncing from the floor as clearly and carefully as you can, “