Our minds are hard-wired to detect patterns. It’s how we survive. It’s how we learn, create, and grow. It’s also why we’re our own worst enemies. We have a habit of looking for order where there is none. We expect it to be there. We go out of our way to anticipate it, and in doing so, we draw all sorts of conclusions, while forgetting that conclusions are always subject to future division. Most of us assume that our ideas are the right ones, and we don’t take kindly to suggestions toward the contrary. This leads to conflict.

From birth, we are bound up in the patterns that define us. We would rather fight, suffer, and die than relinquish our patterns, let alone renounce them. A man would rather starve than be patternless, for patternlessness is next to meaninglessness, and meaninglessness is anathema to the soul.

It’s unfortunate, and painfully ironic. Patterns are not gods. They are mere structures, and structure has no meaning outside of relationship to other structures. The value of patterns lies in how they relate to us, and one another, and to the chaos all around us. Only by keeping our patterns to ourselves long enough that we might see the world for what it is, rather than what we think it is, can we attain enlightenment, and grow.

Though, I suppose that belief is also a pattern. So it goes.

One of the most important encounters of my life happened on the sixth day after the Third Beginning. At the time, it was so improbable and unreal, that the only way I could explain it was to think of it as an act of god. And in a way, it was, though not in the way most would think. In that moment, God was there. No, not the Angel. God. Real God. The Big Kahuna.

Despite having spent my whole life searching for God, I admit it would take me an embarrassingly long amount of time before I could look back on this moment and point to where God was within it.

I wonder if you’ll fare better.

It began in the simplest possible way. After escorting Nina back to her room—a long, painful walk, where many words were shared, about demons and Andalon—I decided to help process the influx of new patients from the military’s convoy. Quite a few of them were still waiting to be situated. Also, in the back of mind, I wanted to see if there were any transformees among them, so that I could tell them what to do and where to go.

As much as it pained me to admit, the Self-Help Group was doing a far better job of treating the transformees than me or any of my still-human colleagues. The folks sequestered in places like Room 268 were sorely at disadvantage. There was so much they needed to know that they weren’t being told.

The staff had been working overtime to scan all the incoming patients and upload their data onto the hospital network. While this might seem like a needless waste of time considering the circumstances—and it was—ALICE required the data to be uploaded, so as to ensure that the hospital’s resources were not being fraudulently used. (And, to think, people said AI would make things better!)

Opening the WeElMed app, I glanced down the list of most-recently-uploaded names to assess the incoming patients from a bird’s-eye-view. How many were severe cases? How many were Type Twos? That sort of thing.

I was walking down the hallway when I saw something that made me grind to a halt, as if a lightning bolt had just struck the top of my head. Shocked as I was, I didn’t notice an oncoming bed until it had rolled into me and knocked me to the side, sending my PortaCon flying out of my hand and clattering onto the floor.

“Out of the way!” the nurse yelled.

I didn’t say anything in response, being fixated on picking my console up off the vinyl floor. Thankfully, the device was undamaged. Its protective plastic case had done its job splendidly.

Andalon floated up alongside me to get a look as I gawked at my console’s screen. I was double-checking, just to make sure it was real. Yes, I could have just consulted my memories, but at that moment, my abilities as a wyrm were the furthest thing from my mind.

The thing I’d seen that had thrown me for a whirl? It was a name. But not just any name:

Himichi, Kosuke (M-92 / E9)

“What’s it say?” Andalon asked, from where she floated above my shoulder.

“One of these days, I need to teach you how to read,” I muttered, glancing back at her. “Anyhow, it says, ‘Himichi, Kosuke, male, aged 92, is in Room 9, here in E Ward’.”

Was it possible that there was another, 92-year-old man with the same name as my favorite mangaka, and that this improbable personage happened to be in Room 9 of the very Ward I stood in? Yes. Was it likely?

I didn’t care in the least.

Then, as if by some baleful magic, an exclamation mark appeared in parenthesis beside the name. That was what happened when someone had officially inputted a notice of an emergency regarding the patient in questions.

(As you’d imagine, most of the names on the patient list had exclamation marks beside them.)

Tapping the exclamation mark brought up a pop-up which contained an explanation of the problem. The explanation was particularly succinct, in that there was none at all.

I hauled myself over to Room 9 on the double. It was on the next hallway over. I knew where I was needed the instant I turned down the hall.

It was where all the screaming was coming from.

“Just shut up already!” a woman yelled.

“No—no!” a man replied, “I don’t want to forget!”

“Hold him still!” said another.

People seated nearby—on chairs, or on the floor—looked toward the commotion. Fading voices asked questions in between wheezing breaths. Any kind of drama, no matter how foolish or tragic, was a distraction from dying and death, and everyone with the eyes to see it wanted to know what all the fuss was about. Many of our newer rooms had sections of their wall made from solid panes of reinforced glass. These window-walls faced the hallway, and when their curtains were open, onlookers received a clear view of whatever was happening behind closed doors. The panes even had built-in displays that could be set to display the patients’ vitals on the glass in brightly colored alphanumerics with a touch of a button.

Room 9’s window-wall was open for all the world to see. As I sped down the hall on psychokinetic-boosted footsteps, the view broadened enough to let me see what was going on. It was a wrangled knot of arms and torsos, reaching and screaming.

“I don’t want to forget!” the old man yelled.

“Get the sedative!”

“What kind?”

“Leave me alone!”

“Any kind!!”

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

The other end of the hallway opened onto Ward E’s reception area, beyond which lay its lobby—the main waiting room. Much to my horror, I saw a couple of soldiers heading toward the commotion, with rifles in hand.

Did they think this was a zombie incident?

Fudge.

Room 9’s door was ajar. “Everyone get back!” I said, yelling as I darted through the doorway. “I’m a doctor!”

The few standing onlookers scattered, though I couldn’t tell if the approaching soldiers had done the same.

Turning to the nurses on duty, I bellowed. “What in the world is going on here!?”

Technically, it was a nurse and an orderly, not that the distinction really mattered at this point.

One of the nurses was bent over the patient’s bed, next to the IV drip stand, which had toppled to the floor. The nurse held fast to a pair of frail arms, loosely skinned. The other nurse stood with his arms astride her.

It was at this point that I remembered I had magic powers.

Seeding up my thoughts, I slowed my perception of time until the actions seemed to freeze before my eyes.

Boy, what a difference that made.

The first thing I noticed was the light glinting off the syringe in the male healthcare worker’s hand.

Oh, fudge, I thought.

They were going to sedate him.

As per my usual ethical stances, I was against involuntary sedation, at least as long as the victim wasn’t a full-on fungus zombie. This was especially important, given that I wasn’t yet sure what exactly was going on.

But then, I noticed the source of the scuffle—the patient in the bed—and then nothing else mattered.

He was as the app had described: an elderly Munine man. Wan-faced, emaciated, covered in freckles and wrinkles and liver-spots galore, he lay on his side, with his limbs sprawled about, all jumbled up with his blanket and sheets. He stank of sweat, age, fungus, and tears. Plagueborn nodules marred his clavicle, just above the hem of his gown’s collar. Anguish was still fresh on his face; his left arm was frozen at his side, mid-tremble.

There was no denying it. A miracle had occurred.

This was Kosuke Himichi. Artist and writer, mangaka, weaver of nightmares and dreams. I could count on my fingers the number of times he’d done televised interviews, and I had seen them all. The most recent had been nearly a decade ago, but I recognized him all the same. Scarcity made for the most indelible moments. Though, to his credit—not counting the Green Death—he hadn’t changed much. He’d gained a few wrinkles and lost some more hair, not that he’d had much left to lose when I’d last seen him.

What do you say to the shaper of your bewonderment? To the intimate friend you never thought you’d ever meet? And now, here we were.

I wanted to cry.

Mr. Himichi wasn’t just dying, oh no. What I saw on his face was much worse than imminent death.

He was heartbroken.

I let time speed back up.

The nurse had looked back at me, and had already started to talk, but I wasn’t listening. I wanted to, but I couldn’t; it took all my self control not to scream—or, Angel forbid—send someone flying with a barn-busting thought. I breathed in and out, counting to three thrice over until the shimmering plexus filaments building around me had faded away.

The nurse spat back at me. She was livid. “This is none of your—”

—But then she saw me. Her face bleached with shame as she stepped away.

I wondered how much Nurse Kaylin was going to dig into her for losing her cool the way she had.

Unfortunately, as the nurse stepped away, her male accomplice thought the movement meant it was time for him to lunge forward and inject the sedative.

Behind me, Andalon yelped in alarm as I charged at the orderly. I slung my arms under his armpits. At first, he flinched, but then he surged in my grip.

“Let go of—”

“—Marv, no! It’s Dr. Howle!”

“What?”

But then we all heard the click of rifles, and the room went from white hot to stone cold. Marv held up his arms, staying perfectly still. The ECG chirped like a bird in a broiler.

“What’s going on!?” one of the soldiers yelled.

“Everybody just calm the fudge down,” I said.

I slowed time, recentered my consciousness into my Main Menu, and took a couple of deep breaths before letting things continue.

I looked over my shoulders, at the soldiers.

“There’s no need for violence, gentlemen.”

“Marv,” I said, turning to face the back of the man in my arms, “here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to let you go, and then you’re going to take two steps back and the both of you,” I glared at the other nurse, “are going to tell me what’s going on, and the nice men with the guns are going to walk away and get back to keeping people safe, okay? The zombies have no semblance of reason. That’s a very low bar, and it’s one I expect everyone here to meet. I really don’t want to have to tell Dr. Marteneiss that you two are throwing away what precious little law and order we have left.”

“Oooooh…” Andalon cooed.

I tried not to grin too much.

When she wanted to be, the little minx could be quite the peanut gallery.

Marv let his arms drop to his sides, and then grunted. “Fine.”

Happily, everyone did as I said, and then the men with the guns went away and nobody got hurt.

Imagine that!

I took a couple steps back before I addressed the nurses. “Listen, we’re all running on empty,” I said. “Don’t waste precious energy fighting with the patients. Just walk away.” I sighed. “The Green Death will solve all of our problems soon enough.”

“Dr. Howle,” the other nurse said—Deborah, as indicated by her name-tag, “everyone who’s ever mattered to me is dead.” Deborah glanced at Mr. Himichi, who glared at her from underneath his blanket. “I’m not gonna stand here and get yelled at by geriatrics. Fuck,” she added, with a hiss, only to cough as she lowered her head in anguish. “Maybe I should just give up and let the plague take me. It’s already broken me.”

Taking a closer look at her, I saw the streaks of days-old mascara that had bled down her cheeks, like some kind of tribal war paint.

“Don’t say that,” I said.

“It’s just… I don’t know if I can go on anymore,” she said. “I mean… what are we even fighting for anymore? The plague has worn us down to the nub.”

I cleared my throat. “Moments like this,” I said. “That’s what we’re fighting for. To keep them alive, for as long as we can, and to stay human as best as we can manage.”

Glancing at Mr. Himichi, I sighed, and then turned back to the two nurses.

“Now,” I said, “what happened here? Start from the beginning.”

“This patient is a boor,” Deborah replied. “I…”

“Deborah?” I asked.

She shook her head and stuck out her hand. “Sorry, I…” she coughed, “I’ve been having trouble with my memory.”

Through my wyrmsight, all three of them—Deborah, Marv, and Mr. Himichi—were bright with the fungus’ riotous, magenta-rainbow aura.

Marv glanced at Mr. Himichi, and then at me. “I heard it, Doc. He was moaning and moaning about ‘wanting to draw’, ’needing to draw’, ‘dying’, ‘forgetting’.”

“Yeah,” Deborah nodded. “I showed him the Art App on the console, but he—”

Mr. Himichi sat up as tall as he could. “—No!” he snapped. “A thousand times no!” He coughed. “Why don’t you listen?” He clenched a fistful of blanket.

“He doesn’t stop, Dr. Howle.” Deborah shivered. “He wouldn’t stop. He’s miserable, and I’m miserable, and I just thought that we’d both be better off if he was sedated and I were somewhere else. I was in F Ward an hour ago, but they forced me to end my shift, so I transferred to E, knowing you guys could use the help.”

“They forced you to end your shift?” I muttered. I raised my brow. “When was the last time you took a break?”

The question spooked her. “No, no,” she quivered, “I can’t. I’m so tired, Doctor, but I don’t want to sleep. I’ve been having such nightmares… I don’t know if I’ll wake up again.”

I sighed. “You need your sleep,” I said, “working yourself to a pulp will only accelerate your decline, and that doesn’t do any of us any good.”

Her lips quivered as tears glinted in her eyes. “I know.”

Beside me, Himichi sniffled and snorted. “I would sleep, if I could.” He swallowed something that had gobbed up in his throat, and then looked me in the eyes. “I can feel it going, Doctor. So… I have to draw it, otherwise…” his voice trailed off. Like Deborah, he wept. His tears glinted beneath the fluorescent ceiling lights.

“I don’t trust the electronics,” he continued. “It needs to be a hard copy.” He slapped his fist against the mattress. “But I forgot them… my supplies. I left them at home.” He shook his head. “But I’ve never gone anywhere without them. And now…” his voice, already soft and fragile, began to break. “I’m running out of time…”

He shuddered, and I shuddered with him.

I turned to Marv. “Marv?”

He coughed. “Yeah…?”

“Stop trying to inject people with sedatives against their permission. Save the sedative for the zombies,” I said. “I think we’ll need it.”

I walked over to the console mounted by the door and waved my hand over the scanner to access my account and start pushing the necessary buttons.

“If, by some dark miracle,” I said, “either of you ever find yourselves with a patient asking to draw with the old-fashioned physical materials, all you need to do is place an order with the Mental Health division, in C Ward.”

Tapping the ‘submit’ button on the screen, I did just that. There was a little whoosh from the console’s speakers as my request for drawing supplies to Mr. Himichi’s room got shunted down the digital pipeline.

“Mental health facilities keep a range of arts and crafts supplies on hand at all times, for therapeutic uses. They even have modeling clay.”

I turned to the nurses once more. “Got it?”

They nodded.

“And, Deborah?”

“Y-Yes?”

“Please get some sleep,” I said. “Doctor’s orders.”

I turned my gaze toward Mr. Himichi, slowed by an unwanted feeling of dread. “I’ll deal with… the patient.”

Marv trudged off with all the resolve of a sleepwalker. Deborah gazed at me, full of mourning and fear, and stricken with shame. Her uniform was disheveled, looking like it might fall off her at any moment.

“I’m sorry…” she muttered, as she turned and walked away. She took her presence with her, leaving a vacuum in her wake.