Wayne Kyle Spitzer

When she awakened, there was a fly buzzing about her Jell-O and the ice-cream had melted. The storm was still on, but seemed farther away — so much so that she could hear the solemn ticking of the wall-clock. And something more: a squeaking sound, like the protests of a wheelchair too long neglected. It was coming from outside her room. It was coming up the hall.

She looked at the doorway.

Sure enough, an old woman in a wheelchair muscled her way past, skinny, ashen elbows working. It was a comical sight, frankly. Slow down, you old bag, Tika wanted to call out — and almost did. Then the squeaking stopped, abruptly, and the old woman backed slowly into view again. She looked at Tika.

The younger woman looked back. Between them, up on the wall, the old IBM clock ticked.

The resemblance was uncanny. Both women had long hair, though the younger's was blonde and flowing, like lemon molasses, and the older's was thin, platinum, flyaway. Both were skinny. Both had blue eyes, fine features, were gaunt as castaways, and —

Suddenly, the crone was rolling, charging, Buchenwald elbows pumping rust-spotted wheels, a hand like a dead tree branch reaching out, groping, flailing, batting away Tika's I.V., tumbling her saline bottle which shattered against the blood-red tiles …

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