voice other-worldly, a hollow, eerie monotone.
        Simultaneously a second voice said, “Hi Danny.” It was from the next bed, an ancient, gaunt woman, also in restraints, also in the eerie monotone.
        He looked to the neighbor and back to his grandmother. “Gramma, are you okay?”
        There was a pause, as if she were choosing her words carefully. “I’m okay.”
        “Why are you in restraints?”
        She shrugged.
        “I came in this afternoon and couldn’t wake you.”
        “I was tired. I slept soundly today.”
        “Are you on a strong pain medication?”
        “No. I was very tired. So was Mrs. Hafu.”
        He stared dumbly. “Mrs. Hafu?”
        She nodded to the next bed. “My roommate.”
        He changed the subject. “Gramma, what are those marks on your neck? They look like bites, and they look infected.”
        Still in the monotone, “I don’t know, Danny. Maybe spider bites.”
        “They don’t look good, Gramma. Do they hurt?” He rubbed the sores with his finger. They were hard and crusted. She flinched violently, her eyes blazing, and tried to grab his wrist, but was held back by the restraints.
        “Don’t touch that, Danny! It needs to heal. You mustn’t touch it.”
        He stepped back, perplexed. How had his grandmother transformed from a robust, easy-going senior citizen to a demented zombie overnight? And what were those puncture wounds?
        Gramma spoke. “Have you seen Robin?”
        He looked at her. “Robin? My wife Robin?”
        She nodded.
        “Gramma, Robin and I are getting divorced. Remember?”
        “She wants to see you.”
        He played along. “How do you know that?”
        “She told me.”
        “You talked to Robin?”
        “Yes, Danny. She comes every night to visit.”
        From the next bed Mrs. Hafu spoke. “Every night.”
        He felt an adrenaline rush. Yes, he’d left