When Glen woke up it was cold. He felt sore. He feared that if he even tried to turn around, his bladder would burst. He had fallen asleep on the ledge. He struggled to get up. He peered down the driveway; the bottle had fallen and broken into pieces, which were being devoured by the snow. He limped his way back to his room.

Maggie wasn't there, so she was still on the couch. He pissed for what seemed like an eternity and crawled into the welcomingly warm sheets. He saw Stan before his eyes. He had a lollipop in his mouth and was kneeling on the windowsill. Glen closed his eyes and tried to sleep. But there again, he saw (even with his eyes closed) himself trying to tug the lollipop out of Stan's mouth. He was an 8-year-old fighting over a lollipop. He drifted away, diazepam working up the magic.

Somebody was whistling an old Beatles song. Glen was looking up at what looked like a car roof. He was saying, "Hello Goodbye." It was Stan, whistling. Then there was a distant but ascending whirr from his left side. He turned. There was a hill on the left. He rocked his head back again. He looked out the windshield; it was windy out there, miles of empty road. The whirr grew. Close. He sat upright. Just as Stan steered left, a gold 4WD's fog lamps stared him blank in his face. He caught a glimpse of the drunk behind its wheel. Stan screamed.

There was the scream, the screech, the bang of two vehicles colliding and ear splitting sound of the horn with the crash. Then there was smoke. Somebody was trying to breathe; he inhaled, no, he could breathe easily. He looked at Stan expecting hell. The steering shaft, it seemed, had been screwed on Stan's heart. He proceeded to get out the car but he couldn't locate the door. His right side was all blood, his left was paralyzed.

Stan gurgled. There was a splash, like a bottle being emptied.

"Stan…" he couldn't speak. Then he couldn't think. He saw glitter. He heard a wail or was that a siren? An ambulance had arrived out of nowhere. The paramedic got out. Just one. He got out the front door; was that the driver?

Something thick was streaming down his forehead. His vision blurred. He saw the paramedic's face… he choked. He was coughing. He was screaming.

Then Maggie was holding him, "Wake up, Glen. Are you all right? GLEN!"

He saw the ceiling. Sweat inflamed his eyes. Was that a nightmare?