Scribe's Mom KNEW she should have been frightened when a strange--make that VERY strange--leather clad man walked out of her daughter's room. But living with Scribe, she'd learned to take certain things in her stride. It was a lot easier on the blood pressure. "She isn't here."

"I was just about ta ask ya about that," said Strife. He peered around. "I passed tha potty on tha way, an' I can see clearly inta tha kitchen an' livin room from here. Those are her usual hang outs, so where is she?"

"Hospital."

"What? No--no. C'mon, lady, sit down. Breathe, breathe. That's it. Hang on." *runs glass of water and hands it to Scribe's Mom* "Drink that. I'da given ya a whiskey, or at least wine, but if I remembah correctly yer some sorta denomination that don't do alcohol."

"Southern Baptist, and after that I think a little nip would be excused, but thanks anyway." *sipsip* *blink* *deep breath* "Oooh-kay. Please don't do that again. I would have feared for any plane passing overhead."

"Harpies got nothin on me when I get goin. Now, what were ya sayin?"

"She's in the hospital agai--"

"WHAT?" "I ASKED YOU NOT TO DO THAT!" "Eep! Tha 'Mom' voice! She means business. Okay, I'm calm." *pause* "But--really? Tha hospital? I was just here."

"What are you talking about? She's been there for almost a week. Her heart rate was far too rapid, and they're trying to get it regulated." Her eyes narrowed. "I suspect it might have something to do with that young blond man, but Scribe swears it isn't so. I can't help but think a man clad in underwear, found in a nice single girl's bedroom has something to hide."

"Not if it's a thong, he don't. Look, I'd love ta stay an' chat, but I gotta scram ovah there an' check on her. At least this one no one can blame on me. I don't do heart disease." He gave a nasty, thoughtful smile. "Well, maybe yellin BOO at select people..."

*Flash*

Scribe's Mom blinked away blue sparks, and murmured, "And they say that it's the teenage years when you have to worry about the weird friends."

"Greg, you're a sweetie. I love you dearly. Get away from me with those powdered eggs or I'll rip off the connecting pads and strangle you with the wires from my heart monitor."

Greg laid the spoon back on the tray. "Feeling better, are we?"

"I'd be better off trying to eat the styrofoam peanuts they use to pack electronics. At least they might have some flavor."

"Or at least more spirited."

"I understand about the no salt on the tray, but I'm allowed pepper, and what the fuck am I supposed to season with that one teeny paper pack? I might be able to season a french fry--if I was allowed french fries! If all I can have is pepper, why don't they give me enough pepper? Who the hell decides how they season this swill? Someone whose idea of spicy food is the fine cuisine of, oh, Wisconsin?"

"You're sarcastic. You're going to be all right."

"Bite me."

"I knew it would be dangerous to limit your Diet Pepsi intake."

"I'm hunting down the top researchers, kidnapping them, and holding them hostage till they come up with a salt substitute that doesn't just taste like chemicals."

"You could use Mrs.--"

"If I want herbs, I'll ask for freakin' parsley on my tray! And don't you dare tell me to squeeze a lemon over anything!"

*Flash*

Strife sighed in relief. "Oh, good. She's all right."

"I think they'll release her tomorrow--that is if the psychiatrist doesn't want to hold her for observation," said Greg.

"If I have one more beef-and-textured-vegetable-protein hockey puck, I'm going to kill someone," Scribe declared. "They seem to think that putting a different sauce over it makes it a different meal. It doesn't! Soy is the same damn thing under tomato sauce or brown gravy."

Strife looked at Greg. "I'm so relieved. If she's bitchy, she's all right. It's when she gets real quiet that ya gotta worry about her."

"Excuse me, I have to go to the can. Eyes off the split in the back of the gown," she warned, climbing out of bed. She had an IV in her arm, and she gripped the pole, rolling the stand after her. "I feel like a damn pit bull--tethered up and ready to bite somebody."

Once she had closed the bathroom door, Strife said, "She ain't blamin me, is she?"

Greg shook his head. "Nah. She said this has been coming on for awhile. She's been feeling steadily more rotten. I feel like such a dope. At first I thought I was what was making her breathless. I felt like king stud of the world."

"About tha time frame. Her Mom said somethin about her bein here a week, an' I thought I was only gone..."

"Fanfiction?"

"Yah, right. I should know bettah, but sometimes I wish tha insanity was a little more consistent. It'd make it easier ta keep track." Scribe came out. "No flush?"

"They're measuring it, God preserve us."

"An how are ya doin?"

"I'm peeing like a racehorse, which is what they want, but a damn inconvenience when I have to trundle this rack along with me."

"Ya know, ya can really tell yer a writer from yer elegant an' refined phrasology."

"Stuff it."

*Flash*

Cupid appeared. "Here you are! I left the kids with Dad, so I'm free to help you. Hey, Scribe."

"Cupid, as glad as I am to see you," she said, "have you considered the possible effect of a man with white wings being spotted in a cardiac care unit?"

"Oops. I guess I'd better head out quick. Gimme some sugar." He gave her a quick hug and a little-bit-more-than-platonic-friends sort of kiss. "I'll go check with Scott to be sure his idiot Dad didn't have a hand in this." *Flash*

The door opened, and a nurse bustled in. "Your heart rate just jumped significantly. What's wrong?"

Scribe licked her lips. "Nice daydream."

The nurse checked the monitor. "Well, it seems to be okay now." She caught sight of Strife, and hesitated. "Did you...?"

"If ya dare suggest I'd do anythin ta hurt my girl, there, you'll nevah have a pair of pantyhose go more'n five minutes without a run," he warned.

"Oh-kay. Are you through with your tray, Miss Feazell? You haven't eaten much."

"I thought I was supposed to be keeping my blood sugar lower and trying to lose weight," Scribe said.

"Well, yes, but you don't want to take it too far, either. Be sure to eat all your lunch." She left.

Scribe laid back and pulled the covers over her head. "Suddenly I understand the old saying about damned if you do, damned if you don't. And the lesser of two evils. Maybe I can do like I did back in grade school--drink my milk, then stuff the crappy stuff in the carton..."

"You gonna be all right ta stay with her for awhile?" asked Strife.

"Let 'em try and get rid of me. They tried to tell me that I couldn't stay over night."

"How'd ya get past 'em?"

"Lied and said I was a relative. I got a funny look when they came in at night to take her blood pressure and found us cuddled in bed."

"Not too funny, I bet."

"How'd you know?"

"One of her pet peeves. This is Texas, an' it's wunna tha few places left in America were ya can legally marry yer cousin. I think they got some Olympic ties. Take care of her, an' I'll get back ta ya as soon as I can."

"Where are you going?"

"Fuck if I know. I'm makin this up as I go along."

*Flash*

From under her sheet Scribe murmured, "Welcome to the wonderful world of stream of conscience writing..."