When I woke up I could not breathe on my own. It wasn’t for lack of trying. Hoses and wires came and went in and out every conceivable hole in me. Still other holes, the inconceivable ones, oozed and soaked with the rest of me in a not-quite congealed balm, an unnaturally cool suspension in which I was… suspended.
Where was Bob? Bob was a dream. Bob was what I would do in this tank filled with a liquid that was almost too thick to be called a liquid.
“You’re awake!” Bob had been replaced with creatures in white lab coats. I couldn’t see them very clearly through the portals and all the slop between, but I could hear them perfectly.
“You’re in a Skywalker Tank,” said the voice. That voice belonged in fatigues, not in a white lab coat.
You would think it got its name from the Star Wars episode where we see Luke Skywalker all squirmy and in loincloth bubbling away his boo boos in an all-glass see-thru cylinder of Listerine. This was a horizontal version of that, mostly stainless steel with a few windows like, maybe, a recycled iron lung. And seeing as how this was reality and not some movie, no loin cloth clothed my loins or any other part of me. But, no, it had nothing to do with Star Wars. The name Skywalker had been around decades before the movie.
“Don’t try to breathe on your own.” Her voice became vigorously reassuring, quickly, carefully pronouncing. “Relax. I’m going to give you something to calm you….”
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