In the dim light of a hospital room, I wake to the buzzing of flies.

Emerging from the morphine haze that has kept me prone and dreamless through the night, I count three—maybe four—flies tracing loops above my forehead. One breaks loose from the others, whirrs over the sheets, circles the IV in my left foot, then draws a fast line, low and arrogant, up my torso. Passing within inches of my face, it disappears into my hair. Silence follows. A neck brace makes wiggling my head impossible, so I clumsily wave one of my two plaster-covered arms over my head. This flushes out the fly in my hair and the others scatter, but I misjudge the cast's weight and punch myself in the eight-inch gash that crosses my scalp. A white pop of light coincides with the wet thunk, but I forget to feel pain, waiting for a sign of a ruptured suture.

Nothing. The headache subsides, and the flies return.

As I debate another full swing of the cast, a nurse brushes the curtain aside and glides toward my IV bag. He's broad-shouldered and shaped like a beer keg. The flies scatter with his arrival, then float back. He stares at them and, moving with the solemn boredom of an old gunslinger, picks up a towel, winds it into a rope, and snaps it viciously into the air above my head. One of the flies crashes into my chest. Wings askance, exoskeleton compromised. Emergency medical attention needed.

"Got 'em," says the nurse.

"All of them?" My voice a bit more shrill than I would prefer.

"Yup," he says as he folds the towel, and places it atop my small pile of clothes.

In the dim light of a hospital room, I wake to the buzzing of flies.

Emerging from the morphine haze that has kept me prone and dreamless through the night, I count three—maybe four—flies tracing loops above my forehead. One breaks loose from the others, whirrs over the sheets, circles the IV in my left foot, then draws a fast line, low and arrogant, up my torso. Passing within inches of my face, it disappears into my hair. Silence follows. A neck brace makes wiggling my head impossible, so I clumsily wave one of my two plaster-covered arms over my head. This flushes out the fly in my hair and the others scatter, but I misjudge the cast's weight and punch myself in the eight-inch gash that crosses my scalp. A white pop of light coincides with the wet thunk, but I forget to feel pain, waiting for a sign of a ruptured suture.

Nothing. The headache subsides, and the flies return.

As I debate another full swing of the cast, a nurse brushes the curtain aside and glides toward my IV bag. He's broad-shouldered and shaped like a beer keg. The flies scatter with his arrival, then float back. He stares at them and, moving with the solemn boredom of an old gunslinger, picks up a towel, winds it into a rope, and snaps it viciously into the air above my head. One of the flies crashes into my chest. Wings askance, exoskeleton compromised. Emergency medical attention needed.

"Got 'em," says the nurse.

"All of them?" My voice a bit more shrill than I would prefer.

"Yup," he says as he folds the towel, and places it atop my small pile of clothes.

"That," I say, as he moves toward the curtain, "is the single greatest thing I've ever seen in my life."

And it is. This guy is the Lone Ranger. He is John Wayne and Batman and Han Solo. I want to high-five him, but it would hurt too much. Doctors, nurses, orderlies, technicians, assistants, administrators—rock music should be waiting for these people when they arrive at work. Fire up the smoke machines. Light the fireworks. A deep-throated announcer should rumble out their names as all of us patients shout and holler and clap our remaining moving parts together.

"Seriously, " I say to the nurse. "I appreciate it."

He nods and tells me to get some sleep, adjusting the blinds to cut down on the morning glare and as darkness creeps in, I close my eyes and attempt to take his advice. Relax. Stay positive. Remember life has its little joys. Aside from being alive, which is nice, during my short hospital stay, I have already set an emergency room record for projectile vomiting. This is not an exaggeration. Official records aren't kept, but the nurse cleaning up my mess told me she'd never seen anyone puke twenty feet from a reclined position. (The cause, she said, stress and vertigo. I didn't tell her about the unwise decision to eat an old chicken sandwich retrieved from my backpack, but I'm sure she noticed.)

This was a day earlier, and before a friend found me on a gurney in the hospital emergency room. Trying to emphasize the positive, he mentioned that this particular hospital, located in the heart of the heartland, was one of the top teaching hospitals in the United States, then read aloud the admittance sheet's summary of what had happened: "SUV vs. Bike. SUV Wins."

Both of us appreciated the blunt assessment of the situation, the macabre humor, the refusal to elaborate. Two opposing forces have met. There was a winner. There was a loser. Having exhausted all other conversation topics, he asked me what I remember.