It was obvious I was in a hospital. The bed sheet had a “Valley H” stitched on it. Valley Hospital in Ridgewood . . . I was close to home. 

But what day was it? Well, never mind that—what year was it? 

I tried to sit up and look around for a clock or calendar, but I was too tired. My muscles wouldn’t move; they were on strike. Clearly, there was something seriously wrong with me, but still, I felt like I wasn’t supposed to be in the hospital.

Why would I be in a hospital anyway? Then I remembered: I had cancer. But hadn’t I found a cure? Somewhere in the back of my groggy mind, it felt like I had. But right now, it sure didn’t feel that way. 

I tried to raise my head just a little off the pillow, but even that was impossible. I don’t ever remember a time when I wasn’t able to pick myself up. Well, maybe there was that time when I jumped off Lumpy’s cabana and did a huge belly flop. I think I was sprawled on the side of the pool for about an hour trying to catch my breath. 

Next to me was a chair, but it looked like someone had turned it into a kind of bed. It was covered in blankets, and a pillow was propped up against one of the armrests. It looked like whoever it was had been sleeping in it for a long time. How long had I been in this place for anyway?

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