Thanks to all my lovely reviewers: anakinbridger541, PurlyandGirly, NJ2001, IcedFireFrenzy, Sunderious, cityofstarlight, InmylifeIloveLennon, ThisBirdHasFlown, Macca40, MaccasWeirdFriend, omgringo, rockon1973, Swimmer Girl 17, and Gem R.

14 August, 1965, 6:00 AM (New York time). Bellevue Hospital, New York City, New York, USA.

George slammed the hospital telephone back into its cradle for the nth time. Why doesn't Paul's phone work? he wondered. Not for the first time, he doubted whether he'd gotten the number right.

"Mr. Harrison?" asked a female voice. George looked up to see a redheaded young nurse standing just inside the door, clutching a clipboard to her chest hesitantly.

"Yeah?" replied George, his eyes travelling up and down the nurse's curvaceous figure. What if I can't – he started to think, but then stopped himself.

"Did you call your family?" she asked, nodding toward the beige telephone on George's nightstand.

George shook his head. "Isn't that your responsibility? The hospital's, I mean."

The nurse nodded and jotted something down on her clipboard. "I'll ask Lee Ann to call them. If you're sure you don't want to tell them yourself, that is?"

"Ta," replied George. "I'd rather you lot tell them."

The nurse smiled. "I understand."

"No, you don't," murmured George, gritting his teeth. The constant beeping of his heart monitor increased in tempo.

"You're right, I don't," said the nurse quietly. "But I'll try my best."

The beeping in the background sank back to its normal speed. "It's all any of us can do," answered George, staring straight into the nurse's blue eyes.

"Lee Ann's gonna come in and run some diagnostic tests," said the nurse hastily, brushing a loose strand of her red hair across her acne-scarred face and behind her ear. "Before she does, do you – do you think you could sign something for me?"

George frowned. "Really? Now? I'm in the hospital, for God's sake!"

"No, no, it's not like that!" exclaimed the nurse. "I – my brother, Danny, he really likes your music, that's all. He's just a kid, he's twelve. He was in an accident last year, skiing with a friend. He doesn't really think straight anymore – you know, he forgets things, can't remember words. I just – why am I telling you all this?" she interrupted her own story, absently sweeping across her large eyes with shaking, pale fingers. "You're just some guy in a hospital bed, and I'm just some nurse about to go home from working the night shift."

"No, I'll sign something," said George quickly. "D'you have any paper or anything?"

"Oh!" the nurse murmured. She dug into one of the small pockets of her nurse's uniform and felt around for paper. "I didn't think this through very well, did I?" she added ruefully.

"It's alright," replied George as she produced an old receipt and a ballpoint pen. He took them from her hands, his calloused fingertips barely brushing against her neatly trimmed, glossy nails. The guitarist's pen raced across the paper, tracing the familiar loops and whorls of his signature. He handed back the receipt to her with a smile.

"I'll leave you alone," said the nurse, quickly pocketing the receipt.

"Hang on, what's your name?" asked George.

"Janet," she replied. "Why?"

"Janet," he said, "I was wrong. You do understand. Remember that, okay?"

She nodded. "Okay."

...

Lee Ann bustled into George's hospital room a few minutes later, pushing an eye-test machine on wheels ahead of her.

"Hello," George attempted at civility.

"Put your eyes up to this," she replied, wheeling the machine next to George's bed.

"I already know I have 20-20!" pointed out George. "I could just tell you that."

"I need to test your vision," droned Lee Ann.

George sighed and put his eyes up to the binocular-like holes. He flew through the eye exam confidently.

"Well, did I pass?" he asked with a satisfied smirk, pulling his eyes away from the machine.

The nurse abruptly poked George's stomach.

"Ow!" exclaimed George. "What was that for?"

"So you can feel that?" asked the nurse brusquely.

"Yeah," replied George, slightly nervously. "Is that good?"

Lee Ann grunted and pulled out a blood pressure gage. George sighed and leaned back against his pillows.

...

14 August, 1965, 7:00 AM (New York time). Bellevue Hospital, New York City, New York, USA.

When Lee Ann finally left, George immediately reached for the telephone to try to call Paul again. However, scarcely had his fingers brushed the tan plastic when the door opened again. A man in a nondescript black jacket and large, horn-rimmed glasses strode in and swung the door shut behind him.

"Yes, you can come in," said George sarcastically. "And thanks for knocking, I really appreciate it."

The man looked down his large nose at George. "I'm Detective O'Mally," he informed George in a heavy New York accent. "I'm here to talk to you about the crash."

"Okay," said George. "I'm all ears. What happened? Who's responsible?"

Detective O'Mally raised an eyebrow sardonically. "I'm supposed to be the one asking you the questions, Mr. Harrison."

"Well, good luck," responded George. "I don't remember a thing after playing cards with Ringo."

The detective jotted down something in the faded red notebook he held in his leather-gloved hand. "When was this?"

"Er . . . about half an hour into the flight, I think. Tony – that'd be Tony Barrow, our press person – he said something about seven hours left 'til we got to New York."

Detective O'Mally nodded. "And that's all you remember?"

"What happened?" asked George.

"We think it was an accident caused by sudden bad weather," replied the detective. "They didn't see this storm coming. I'm just here to double-check everything."

The beige phone next to George rang shrilly.

"I'd better get this," said George.

The detective nodded. "Take care." He turned and left the room, pocketing his faded notebook on his way.

George grasped the telephone and picked it up. "Hello?"

Someone sniffled on the other end of the line. "It's me."

"Pattie!" burst out George. "How are you?"

"Listen, George, I – I have to tell you something," murmured Pattie, her voice thick from crying.

"Did the hospital call you?" asked George anxiously. "Did they tell you . . . everything?"

"Mhmm," replied Pattie. "They gave me your phone number." George waited patiently while she blew her nose loudly. He could picture her, sitting in the front room at Kinfauns, her mascara running down her smooth face.

"So . . . what now?" asked George finally.

Pattie paused before answering, "I'm so sorry, George. You really meant a lot to me, really!" she sniffed loudly before continuing, "But I . . . I'm just too . . . young, you know? I can't commit to taking care of a p-pa–"

"Paralyzed," cut in George.

Pattie blew her nose again. "I just – I'd just end up falling in love with someone else, and then we'd hate each other! We can still be friends . . . I just have my whole life ahead of me! I can't let that go."

There was a pregnant pause. Pattie clutched the arm of her chair; George took a deep breath.

"I get it," replied George softly. "It's fine. Go and live your life."

"Thank you!" sniffled Pattie. "Goodbye, George."

"Bye, Pattie."

She hung up. George listened for the soft click before dropping his own telephone listlessly into its cradle.

The hospital room was silent, save for the constant beep of the heart monitor. George sat in the white hospital bed and stared the blank white wall. He felt very small.

Mrs. Ravenhurst:

We regret to inform you that we have received no word from your husband, Mr. Silas Ravenhurst, 46, since he left Fortaleza on 2 August. As he intended to return within two months, the embassy has declared him missing, presumed deceased. Our condolences to you and your family.