I don't own these characters, in fact I can barely afford to feed my Star Wars collectible figures habit
Call Waiting 9
Joyce was lifted into the back of the ambulance. A paramedic bent over her, syringe in hand. He had a kind smile. "It's going to be all right, Mrs Summers."
She wanted to cry out, wanted to ask what the hell was going on, but she couldn't move. Then everything went black.
She woke up in an operating theatre, surrounded by figures in hospital gowns and masks. She was still immobile. And terrified. Someone announced, "She's conscious!"
A tall man, powerfully built, came into her field of vision. He smiled reassuringly. He was the only person in the room dressed in ordinary clothes; a brown corduroy jacket with a black shirt and brown pants. A square, blocky face framed a wispy brown moustache. "Hello, Mrs Summers," he said. "I know you must have a lot of questions. I'll attempt to answer them."
Carefully, he sat down on the bed next to her. "My name is Steve. You're in bad shape, but these people can help you. Just the same way as they helped me, a few years ago, though our circumstances are different. They assure me that you will be able to walk, talk, and lead a fairly normal life. And yes, you will see your daughters again."
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she felt the corners of her mouth lift infinitesimally in the merest smile. Steve grinned at that. "That's only the beginning, Mrs Summers. You see, you're in need. We can help you. And we think you can help us. We'll talk to you about the details when you're well."
He felt under the sheet at her waist. Joyce was aware of him taking her hand comfortingly. "We can rebuild you. We have the technology."
