In room twenty-one of the intensive care unit there is a comatose man, the ventilator that breathes for him, a tower of intravenous drips, and the Emanation. As I walk in, the Emanation scurries out from under the blankets, shoots up the line of the patient’s leg to perch on his blue toes, and screeches at me. Its mouth is a dry hole with a desiccated worm of a tongue inside it, and sharp, sharp teeth; its skin the gray of weathered stone spotted with moss and lichen. The Emanation is tiny, which is unexpected—a squirrel—no, a marmoset.
The room is silent, though each screen blinks, and bright words run across the monitors one after another—all alarms are off while I am in the room, though I could still hear the beeping coming from elsewhere in the ICU. The sink in the corner has been filled with hot water and plugged, also as requested. I am not used to this level of cooperation and courtesy.
