The Guy Who Hit The Guy Who Isn't Stephen King is wheeled (when most of your stage directions occur in the passive voice, you've got yourself a shitty part, is what you've got) into Rickman's room. Bad-alie raises a protest that her husband was to have a private room for their strained, mind-melding identical dialogue to unfold in the privacy of them, the camera crew, and an ever-decreasing number of disenchanted television viewers, but the nurse apologizes and says it's just temporary. Quite a match. I think the hospital administrators were the same people who conducted the search that landed me with my freshman college roommate, ruining a solid fourth of what you think when you're fifty were the best four years of your life and landing me with an individual who, after convoluted stories and a dash of exaggerated collegiate histrionics, my friends and I nicknamed "Bloody Undies." I'm just saying, if these people think they have it tough... "Oh, man, you've got to be kidding me," Rickman voices over, opening his eyes while his wife's back is turned. Oy, the anteater is back, and Rickman's eyes swell with terror. Bad-alie notes this, and pulls the nurse away from her current case of attending to someone actively undergoing trauma to tell her that her husband has scaredy-eyes. The nurse says that he's fine and was probably just having a bad dream, and that Bad-alie should just talk to him to keep him connected. "That's what Hook said," Bad-alie tells her, and the nurse takes a moment to appreciate Hook, because she was ten in 1986 and who didn't think Blane was, like, totally dreamy? ["[raises hand] But I was thirteen, so what do I know?" -- Sars]