“Still—he looks good,” my mother says reassuringly. “In spite of—you know—”

“I’ve missed you,” I hear some incarnation of my voice say. “I’ve missed you so much. Is this—heaven?”

“It’s one of the multinonlinear dimensions of pi-times-quadrillion-squared transitional incarnations of what some folk call ‘the afterlife,’” my father says.

We are quiet for a moment. Then I say, “Jesus. You do math now?”

“Never mind that, boy!” my father says. “You ain’t supposed to be here for another—”

“But I want to be here,” I say. “I love you. I—”

“Oh, ‘I, I, I,’” my stingray father says mockingly. “Dammit, boy, it ain’t never been about you. Didn’t you ever hear a word I told you? You got time enough for you. But right now, you got things to do. Your work ain’t done, boy!”

“Have you been eating right?” my mother says as she circles whatever form I may be in. “You know I worry about you eating right. I mean, if you don’t have your health, you don’t have anything, right, Octavio? Tell me about your breakfast. How you start your day—”

“He’s losing time!” my father says sharply. Then he whispers something to her, and she nods what I think is her head.

“I made your chili,” I say to my father. “And your salsa,” I say to my mother.

“Mi hermoso chico,” my mother says softly to me, “This—it may hurt just a bit. Un poco.”

My father arches his spike-tipped tail, then strikes at the center of me. I feel the sharp spike cleave deep into me . . .

. . . whiplash of light . . .

. . . beeping . . .

. . . sudden gasp for air . . .

“Okay, he’s back, people! I need twenty ccs of adrenaline! Don’t make me wait for it!”

A man in a white mask stood over me, holding two defibrillator paddles in his hands. I tried to say something. It hurt to breathe.

“Don’t say anything,” the doctor said. “We got you back, and we’re gonna take good care of you.”

The man in the white mask became blurry . . .

. . . faded.

Again, darkness rose.

In a room surrounded by ticking, pulsing, beeping machines. Plastic tubes fed oxygen into my nose while clear liquids dripped into a vein. My chest and ribs were compressed with bandages. Standing over me was a doctor I know. He pressed two fingers into my left wrist while staring at the watch on his other arm.

“Yep,” he said, dropping my wrist. “One-fifteen.”

“My pulse?”

“The time,” Dr. Seibert said. “What? You think people can accurately measure pulse rate by pressing fingers to your wrist? Jesus! That’s why we have technology, dude!”

“Next time you’re here, Doc,” I croaked, “maybe you could bring your med school degree? I’m starting to have doubts.”

“Yeah, I’m not too good at the whole icky-sticky-poopy-guts thing,” he said. “Gives me agita. However, I do make this look good, huh?”