The receiver slips through his fingers, bounces off the phone with a ding, rebounds, and hangs, strangled, swinging. Mark’s throat closes. His fingers drift down the chrome IV pole as he turns, his foot reaching for the answers the mirror must have but he is not sure he should ask. Answers which are sure to beg new questions; answers he is unsure he wants to possess.

Hunted, hunting, he slides his feet across the floor, brushing aside plastic ware coated in plastic food. He pauses. The IV line stretches taunt, then goes slack as the stand rocks, hovers, then crashes to the floor. He continues. Searching.

The IV line pulls tight. Mark stops. He looks at his arm, reaches forward, swings up, and tears loose. The tubing whips back violently as tape and needle are ripped from his arm. He doesn’t notice. Had he looked, he would have seen a pin of white light leaking from the puncture wound, but he doesn’t. All he sees is the mirror now.

Mark reaches… stops.

The TV falls silent then speaks.

Mark…

“Mom?”