It had been three weeks since he had emerged from the coma, slightly worse for wear having only been under for a few days. He sat in his chair in the hospital room, staring out the window over the graveled roof to the west. Beyond that, a busy freeway bustled with traffic that seemed to be moving too fast for a lazy Saturday afternoon. He was fully dressed, ready to leave. The only thing keeping him stationary was waiting for the doctor and his wife to return with the necessary paperwork.

Well, that, and the nauseating feeling he was dead.

Dreams like that are there for a reason, the psychiatrist had told Erica while they thought he had been asleep. Reality has to take form, keep the brain stimulated. It keeps the patient from losing its grip while he’s under.

But don’t dreams fade after a while? Erica grabbed and absently stroked his hand.

Who knows why the brain holds on to what it does?

Grimacing, he thought back to the dreams. He held on because he wanted that life more than this one.