When your best friend is in a coma you can drive out to the suburban hospital after visiting hours; five weeks later, they know you're the closest thing to a husband she might have. After all, you two are not religious and only 23, sharing a February birthday, yours the 15th and hers the 21st. You can close the door of the room and scream wake up wake up wake up wake up. The way when she used to visit, you’d turn over your plump happy body towards her in the mornings, and wake her up by sticking your naked finger in her nose or ear, until she made that crying sound and stuffed her head under the pillow. The way you showered and then dripped wet hair into her open hand. Her tiny palm which you now squeeze, saying do you feel this do you feel this do you feel this; the way you too have lost feeling with her. The way you always told yourself you'd die if she died.