Chapter 7: Helpless

"He's in a coma. I put my best friend in a coma."

Dr. Andonuts regarded his former student through sympathetic eyes. "It wasn't your fault."

Picky ceased his pacing and sank into the brown, plastic hospital chair, shaking his head. "We should've run more diagnostics before testing on a human subject. And I let him talk me into thinking we were ready. I should've been more cautious."

The old doctor sighed, seeming to sag further into the seat he occupied. "Nothing to do about it now. You shouldn't worry yourself. Patrick's a strong boy; he'll pull through."

Picky's head-shaking increased in magnitude. "It might not even be a normal coma. It's not like his conscious mind has stopped functioning, it could be just... gone!" He made a wild gesture with one hand to illustrate the point. "Out floating around somewhere..." But like it or not, the doctor was right about at least one thing: there was nothing to do about it now. Feeling completely helpless, Picky slumped backwards, listening to the far-off beep that indicated his friend was still alive.

Dr. Andonuts looked at Picky sidelong. "I can stay for a while yet," he concluded, sitting up just a bit straighter.

Picky's mouth did something that wanted to be a smile, but only succeeded in pursing his lips together tightly. "Thanks."

- - -

It was the day before Jeffrey's birthday, and Ness suddenly remembered he'd forgotten all about his son's request for a puppy. Shit, he thought, paused in the kitchen halfway to the fridge, where the thought had struck him. Somehow all the work and the fuss about the basement and even Jeffrey's birthday itself had made him forget. The only immediate solace he could conjure up was that Paula must have somehow forgotten too, or she would have reminded him.

Maybe Jeff had forgotten all about wanting a puppy, anyway, or else he would have said something. But Ness realized as he began moving again and opened up the fridge that that was a load of crap. A young boy's desire for a dog was an essential, like the need for comic books and baseball and tree-houses. There was no getting rid of it. Even if things were too busy now for the boy to think about it, come the big day he'd remember. The absence of the gift especially would make him remember, and it would make him miserable. Ness sighed as he took the milk carton from the fridge, approached the counter to retrieve a clean glass.

The phone rang.

"Hello?" Ness did his best to sound cheerful, or at least nonchalant. Something about phone calls always made him feel like things should be starting again.

"Is this Ness?"

"Y-yes," Ness half-stammered, trying to place the voice on the other line. "Who's calling?"

"Ness! This is Dr. Andonuts."

Ness made bug-eyes at the floor. "Doctor! Long time no see. How's it going with you?"

"Oh, fine." There was a clipped tone in that, the universal signal that things were not, in fact, going fine, but the person in question didn't feel like discussing it right now. "I just wanted to call to make sure you knew I'd be making an appearance at your son's birthday party."

"Oh! Yeah?" Had Paula invited him? Paula must have invited him.

"Wouldn't miss it." There was a pause. Ness waited for a follow-up question, or perhaps a hurried retreat from the conversation. Neither came.

"So what have you been up to?" he asked, balancing the phone's receiver between his ear and shoulder as he tried to retrieve a glass from the dish rack. "Any wacky new inventions lately?"

"Oh, no, no." The doctor's voice now had a touch of wistfulness in it. "I'm enjoying the wide open plains of retirement still. I do still... Well, I visit old students time to time, you know, help them with projects."

"Right." All this was old news. Ness poured the milk.

"Anyway, I'm sorry it took me so long to respond to the invitation, it's just other things have been on my mind." There was a brief silence, the kind where someone decides whether to say something or not. "I've been at the hospital."

"What?" Ness nearly choked on his milk. "It's not serious, is it?"

"What? Oh, no. It's not me." Dr. Andonuts sounded quite distracted, but then, Ness figured he could be forgiven that given his age. "It's an old student of mine, from around your area I think, Picky Minch--"

"Picky's in the hospital?"

"No! No. It's his friend, another student of mine... You might know him, or Paula might, I think he was from Threed originally, or one of those towns. They were working on a project together, things went south during a test run."

Ness was genuinely curious now. "Who is he?"

"Patrick Orange."

Ness swallowed his milk that time, but had to do it slowly because he was thinking. "The Orange Kid?" he asked, slightly incredulous.

"Yes, his name is Orange."

"Small world," Ness mumbled into his milk. He couldn't help remembering how useless the Orange Kid's 'projects' had been in the past. He was glad it wasn't Picky who'd ended up in the hospital.

"Anyhow, that's why I'm a little... But nevermind, I'll be sure to be a bit livelier at your son's birthday party. How are you and Paula?"

"We're fine." Ness could detect that note in his own voice now. "We're... y'know. Enjoying the thrills of parenthood."

"Hmm." The sound was low and ponderous. "You ought to keep enjoying it, then. As much as you can."

"Yes sir," Ness nodded, suddenly very somber. Before the moment could stretch too long, however, he cleared his throat. "Um. So we'll see you tomorrow? 4 o' clock?"

"With bells on," Dr. Andonuts replied, a shade of his old eccentric self now. Ness smiled a little, bid the doctor goodbye, and hung up the phone.

- - -

It was dark. An absolute darkness, like being under a thick blanket on a starless night, surrounded by silence. It was like the moment between dreaming and awake. It was like not existing. Then his head hurt, and there was light casting a red glow through his closed eyelids.

Patrick Orange found himself lying horizontal on what felt like a concrete floor, cold and rough to the skin that was exposed to it. He was dizzy, and the floor seemed to tilt and spin; for a second he thought he was not horizontal but vertical, and fully expected to start falling any moment. Then he thought he was about to throw up, until he remembered the last thing that had happened to him. The Dream Machine on his head, humming away, and images had started fuzzing into his brain, pulling him into a hypnotic state. Their invention had worked. He was inside the volunteer's head!

Might've done something about the aftereffects, though. They'd have to work on that for the next model.

Ricky ventured opening his eyes. He was indeed lying on what appeared to be concrete, in a room with no visible furniture. The only light came from a tiny square window, situated close to the low ceiling. Shakily, he got to his knees, then to his feet, testing out the physics of this dream-world. Everything certainly felt real enough. He hopped. There appeared to be gravity. He took a look around the room: it seemed to be a single small building, with no inner features except for a large square hole in the center, which descended into darkness. There was also a door to the outside. Wondering what was out there, Ricky approached the window.

Outside was the brightness of midday, a sharp contrast to the darkness inside the building. There was a ferris wheel, merrily spinning on the horizon, and a row of carnival games on a field of green. Walking up and down the row was a jolly-looking man with a bundle of balloons.

Ricky squinted at the man. If this was the volunteer's dream, he should have been appearing in it somewhere. And that didn't look like him. Still, sometimes people had dreams where they entered the body of another, so it wasn't impossible. And there didn't seem to be anyone else around. He started for the door of his little room, intent on approaching the balloon man.

The door, however, proved difficult to open. After several attempts at the normal methods, Patrick jiggled at the doorknob, pulling and pushing, trying every combination of solutions he could think of. After a desperate ramming at the door with his shoulder failed to work--and rather painfully, at that--he was more or less out of options, and so stopped for a moment... and became aware of a new sound in the space.

It was recognizable first only as a rhythmic tapping, then a few moments later as the unmistakable echo of approaching footsteps. Patrick looked around, confounded at the source of the sound, until his eyes rested on the square hole in the floor. From the meager light entering through the tiny window, he could now see that from the opening extended a set of stairs.

And someone was coming up.