(Thought I'd share a bit of a byte of inspiration.)


A brown-haired woman of average height stooped to enter her white 1991 Ford. As she slid in, she glanced at her watch. Ten thirty at night already, and she had an hour and a half drive ahead of her. She sighed. The visit with her parents had been pleasant enough, but she couldn't wait to get back home to her husband and her dog.

As she pulled out of the driveway, she turned up the radio; a little rock music never hurt anything. She wondered if any news had come concerning the house. Shortly after moving in, she and her husband had realized that it was too big for the two of them. When it bothered them too much, they had decided to put it on the market.

She barely saw the swerving car coming her way with its lights off.

The impact threw her forward, slamming her short-haired head into the steering wheel and blowing the horn. For the first couple minutes, she lay there unconscious.

Darkness. Pain. Wet. A flashing light. A glimpse of the interior of an ambulence, faces. Darkness.

**********

The woman cracked open her eyes. All she saw was a white ceiling with hanging florescent lights.

A face appeared over hers in something reminiscent of a blue hazmat suit. The face glanced to the woman's left then back to her. "Hello," he greeted softly. "If you can hear me, move your toes."

She lay there a moment, her muscles in a kind of trance where it seemed that moving one would upset the perfect balance achieved in the others.

"Just admit it, Tom," a female voice chimed from across the room. "They're all still dead. The eyelids were only a muscle spasm."

"I don't think so, Judy. This one looks alive."

"So do msot of the toy animals for sale at Super*Mart."

The woman twitched her toes. It felt good, so she cracked them. That got their attention. Presently, she tried to pull herself up into a sitting position, but the doctor she could see gently held her shoulders down. "Don't move yet. Can you speak?"

She frowned and rasped, "Of course." It hurt to talk, so instead of elaborating, she looked around the room. One other blue hazmat person stood to her left. The floor was grey tile, and pine cabinets lined the walls above and below dark blue countertops. As far as she could tell, only a single, heavy, pine door led out of the room. Various maschines were attached to her, half of which she couldn't identify.

"What's your name?" asked the first person, Tom.

"Anita Mario Acto--Strauss," she answered, remembering that she had recently married.

"Should we tell her now?" Judy, the second doctor, questioned.

"No. Let's wait until later," Tom replied, his tone heavier than before. "When were you born?"

Anita felt as though her heart had stopped. "Did something happen to John? Is he okay?"

He shook his head. "We'll answer all your questions later." He turned to his assistant. "Judy, will you please check her vitals, make sure she's stable?" She nodded and got to work.

"Please, if something happened to John, I need to know. Is he okay?" Anita begged frantically.

"We'll explain everything later," he promised again. "When's your birthday?"

She sighed, appearing to hold back tears. "June fourth, 1977."

The doctors' jaws fell agape for a few seconds until smiles emerged. "1977," Tom repeated. "Amazing."