“Sleep is a little death, dreams the whisperings of the other who would drag us all into the eternal light,” Georgie said.

“Sorry to wake you up. I need to collect your vitals,” the nurse said. “Name, birthdate?”

Georgie rolled her words around in his mind like gritty marbles. Each syllable scratched under his tongue. They always asked the same question as if they needed a shibboleth, Georgie thought, a special password, that only a select few can pronounce to distinguish one group from another.

“Which group am I in?” Georgie asked. “Dead or asleep.”

“Need your name and birthday, hon,” the nurse said as she set medications on the tray.

Her voice sounded far away. Georgie thought she sounded like an angel. Or maybe a robot. Definitely a robot.

In the velvety blue light of his hospital room, he watched the nurse navigate the supply cart, the uncomfortable chair. Something was in her hands. He wondered if she brought the blue light night with her. Chuckling Georgie imagined a handbag full of sparkling stars.

Pain sliced through his laughter. Shaking, his body constricted into a hard C. The nurse laid her hand on his face. Her fingers were cool side of the pillow smooth on his forehead. Georgie took a shaky breath.

“He will give you death, and you will love him for it,” Georgie said.

“Is that another Tolkien quote, George? I don’t know that one. Tolkien is one of my favorites but I haven’t read him since high school,” the nurse asked.

George fumbled for the answer. Who wrote that? he thought.

“Deep breaths, love, that’s it. You are alive, very much alive. My name is Noreen. Will you tell me your name? Will you tell me when you were born?”

The pain ebbed.

“George Lance, November 22nd, 2005.”