Agent Marshall

She grabs a rusty bone saw off the instrument cart and waves it at Marshall.

Where there should be eyes, the woman has empty sockets.

A whitish liquid oozes from the bottom of the orbless holes, dripping down the woman's cheeks to her jawline, where it patters onto her nasty scrubs.

Marshall is about to scream, but the cry catches in his throat when he sees the necklace the woman is wearing, a necklace he gave his own mother just last year for her birthday.

Marshall asks.

The woman shrieks and pushes the cart over to Marshall's bed with one hand while still wielding the rusty bone saw with the other.

Marshall gasps.

He knows for certain that it isn't rust on that bone saw.

Same color, wrong substance.

Mom, what are you doing?

What's wrong with you?

The thing before him, which he knows isn't his mother, but can't help but think of it only as his mother, cocks its head much like Mouse had.

Nothing wrong with me, son.

What's wrong with you?

Well, to start, I'm strapped to a hospital bed.

Second, none of this can be real.

Marshall tries to think of why it can't be real.

He can't quite put his finger on it.

There's a reason he's sure of it.

The thing Marshall calls mom asks.