She opens her eyes a fraction, blinking first against the brightness,
becoming acutely aware of the smells of ammonia or disinfectant and the 
crispy clean feel of sheets.  She closes her eyes again, as if doing so 
will let her escape from what she knows, from what is real, but the 
clanking of the trolley approaching keeps her half alert, and feeling 
pain. 

“ 'Ere you go, Lois, a nice poached egg for you.” 

It's the last thing she wants to hear, not the poached egg information,
but the overly cheery voice and she cowers under the sheet, pulling it 
tighter to her chin. 

“How about I just leave it beside the bed?” He says, fingernail
preening. 

“I didn't order poached egg,” is the reply from under the sheet. 

“Yes luv, see, ‘ere's the docket, you ticked poached egg alright.” He
holds its flimsiness toward her. 

She remembers that England seemingly offers poached eggs for breakfast,
lunch and dinner. 

“I'm not your love and I did not tick poached egg.” 

The orderly, not quite tall and not quite fat, in his white smock,
appears unoffended. 

“They never are, luv. I prefer my admirers' a little less clean shaven!
You understand?  How will ducks work for you? Mummy calls me ducks all 
the time. But do eat your poached egg.  Quite honestly, luv... sorry, I 
mean ducks, you'll be better with it inside you than nothing at all. 

“I can afford a real breakfast.” 

“What's that darlin',” he asks, quite unaffected by her American
attitude. 

“Bless you,  darlin', but you're in hospital in England, remember, you
don't have to pay.” 

The orderly pushes the breakfast trolley clanking, wheel wobbling
trolley across the hard floor. 

“Morning' Gladys, ‘here's your sausage, bacon and eggs, princess. It'll
be free this morning my girl.” 

Gladys pushes herself upright with frail, skinny, bold veined arms.
“You're too good to me, Nigel.” 

“Not at all, princess, I want you out of ‘ere so we can go on that date.
Remember?” 

Gladys giggles. “I'll be telling my hubby about you, Nigel.” His hand
quaffs the air in front of his face. 

“I don't think your lad will be too concerned about me Gladys!” And his
laughter was light and airy fairy. 

Lois's snort of dissatisfaction is heard across the ward. 

“Was you wanting something else, luv?” Nigel asks, turning his head and
peering over his glasses. 

“Why does she get a good breakfast and I get poached egg?” 

“That's all you ticked, luv. Gladys ‘ere ticked everything except
poached egg. Right Gladys.” 

“Got to keep my strength up for you, Nigel.” She responds, and coughs
violently. 

“Steady you go, Gladys, we didn't get you through this treatment only
to die in a fit of coughing now, did we?” 

 Lois insists further. “I would not have ticked poached egg.” 

The ward orderly paces fluffy back toward Lois's bed. 

“Name?” 

“What?” 

“Your name?” 

“Lois Reynolds.” 

“Aha....see there...” he says excitedly, pointing to the name on the
docket. “...Lois Reynolds, no less, and what have we got 
ticked...aha...poached egg! Game, set and match I believe.” 

“Okay... okay... so maybe I checked the wrong item. I made a mistake.
Look at it...its runny and it looks like one big pale golden eye 
staring at me. Take it away.” 

“Nigel...” The call is raspy... years of tobacco raspy. Years short of
breath raspy. A voice that might quiet any day. 

He turns his head in the direction of the call. Gladys is beckoning him
with a weary wave. He steps closer to Lois's bedside. 

“I've got nothing else to give you. Sorry, luv.” He turns and walks
lightly across the space to Gladys. She takes his arm, gesturing him 
to bend closer, and whispers in his ear. He smiles and pats her hand, 
then picks up her breakfast and returns to Lois's bedside. 

“Seems you've made a friend, luv. Gladys wants you to have her
breakfast. She likes a runny poached egg.” 

Lois has a strong dislike for this particular ward orderly whom, she
considers, has all the charm of a double-glazing salesman and, it 
seems, never has a day off!  But what he's done in a way she has not 
fully appreciated is stop Gladys feeling self-pity and forget how a 
week ago she had not wanted to live. 

She has woken feeling in pain and 
imprisoned. 

The ward orderly, particularly this ward orderly, is simply 
someone to vent upon, and this morning it is over a poached egg! 

“Oh, no, I cannot possibly take her breakfast. Please, return it to her
and thank her. I will eat my poached egg.” Lois is adamant. 

The ward orderly, however, knows she saw Gladdys cough over her
breakfast. He lets a sly grin creep across his mouth.  Lois pulls the 
breakfast tray closer, heaving a little higher from under the white 
sheet, as if she might actually eat the snotty-eyed egg! 

Lois Reynolds is famous. Her many film roles have been awarded Oscars: 
best film, best actor, best everything.  So when she was offered the 
lead part of Jane Eyre in a new period drama for television, she leapt 
at the opportunity. 

That was six months ago. She was always difficult, 
peers told, stubborn, a perfectionist. So when the part demanded a 
scene on horseback she stubbornly insisted on doing her own stunt work. 
 She doesn't remember any of that. 

The famous actress doesn't remember 
anything, not who she is, not what she has done, nor does she remember 
why she came to England, or any visitor who came to her bedside in 
those first couple of months after she had come out of a coma. Since 
the accident happened an investigation revealed the saddle had been 
tampered with, the girth frayed with a knife. Someone clearly wanted 
her hurt, maybe killed. 

The decision was taken to have her transferred 
to a more secure hospital in London, twenty miles outside London. She 
is unaware of the media attention, the ongoing investigation. All she 
knows is that she doesn't know anything, or anyone, save the names of 
those tending to her needs. 

She is an empty shell. The brain is empty 
of recall. There is nothing to her life; no one to think about, no 
reason to stress, no knowledge of who she is, why she is, what she is. 
Her world consists of doctors, a pain in the ass ward orderly, and an 
old woman dying in the bed near her. 

Her brain hasn't completely 
forgotten everything; it remembers how to be difficult, stubborn, and 
not very nice. 

“How about a T.V. movie this morning, maybe after your shower, we have a
good selection?” 

“How about you get someone to fix my hair?” She responds, the tone
resentful. “I've decided I'm not hungry.” She pushes the tray away. 

“Maybe later.” Nigel says. 

“You're kidding me, right?” 

“Well, luv, You checked poached egg for lunch!” 

“That's ridiculous!” 

“Don't you remember?” 

“Very funny! I remember I ticked pizza.” 

“Very good. Pizza it will be. Do you have a favorite movie?  We have a
good collection, something for daytime viewing?” 

Lois thought for a moment until tears began to well into her eyes as she
acknowledged that not a single name of a movie came to mind. 

“No...no, I don't. You choose.” She offers, voice crumbling. 

“I like Doctor Zhivago, Nigel. I love Omar Sherriff...” The wheeze of a
voice calls out. 

Nigel smiles. “Sharif, Gladys, and you've got a rival for his affections
in me, honey.” 

“True, my mum liked him, too.” Nigel remarks, fondly remembering. “Take
a look at the list. I'll come back in an hour. The doctor comes onto 
the ward at 11. A.M.  Lois, a nurse will come in about half an hour to 
take you to the shower.” 

“I don't need a nursemaid to shower. I recall how to do that.” 

“Sorry, luv, hospital policy. Remember, you're not paying. But you do
have to obey hospital policy.”