Please by Peter Darbyshire

doctor brought the interns in, Rachel started to shake and shudder in her bed. She spat more foam out of her mouth and down onto her breasts, rolled her eyes back so I couldn't see anything but white.
    The doctor stepped aside and waved in one of the interns, a young man with glasses and a goatee. He bent down beside Rachel and slipped his finger into her mouth. "Her airway seems to be clear," he said to the doctor, but that was all he managed because then he was swearing as Rachel bit his finger.
    "That's why it's best to use pens to check airways," the doctor said as the intern clutched his hand to his chest. "Not the plastic ones, though. They can bite them in half, and then you get ink everywhere."
    The next intern took a step toward the bed but then stopped as Rachel threw back her head and let out a long scream. It was so loud I actually had to cover my ears with my hands. The interns all looked at each other, but none of them stepped any closer. Then Rachel curled up into the fetal position and began to shake. She did that for a few seconds, then unrolled her eyes and winked at me.
    How could I not fall in love with her?
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    SOMETIMES I DID my research at the hospital. I went around the wards and watched patients in their rooms or in the hallways, wherever I could find someone who had a condition I wanted to learn about. I was in there at all hours of the day, but the nurses didn't seem to mind. It was like I was a real patient. Some of them even commented on my acting.
    "You're not dragging your legs enough," one of them told me when I was practicing my MS walk with some crutches I'd borrowed from a supply closet.
    "Try taking off your clothes," another one said when I was sitting in the waiting room, working on my Alzheimer's look. "They like to take off their clothes when there are nurses around."
    Even some of the patients gave me advice. A man who'd lost his legs in some sort of industrial press accident taught me how to use a wheelchair like I'd been in it for years. We spent the entire night racing up and down one of the halls, until I crushed the air hose of a woman on oxygen who'd come out of her room to complain about the noise. The nurses wouldn't let me back onto that floor for a week, and when I came back, the man in the wheelchair was gone.
    Once, the nurses left a dead man on a bed in the intensive care hallway because they were too busy to take him down to the morgue. Someone was having a heart attack or something like that in the room at the end of the hall, so they were all in there. I lay down on an empty bed across from the dead man and studied him for a while, then tried to make myself look like him. He'd been left with his eyes open, so I stared at the ceiling for as long as I could without blinking, tried not to move at all. I only breathed when I absolutely had to. I could actually feel my heartbeat slow down. I wondered if this was what meditation was like.
    One of the nurses came out of the room at the end of the hall and rolled the dead man and his bed into the elevator. I stayed where I was, not moving. A few minutes later, another nurse came out of the room and started pushing my bed toward the elevator. She screamed and jumped away from the bed when I sat up.
    "Did I have you fooled?" I asked.
    "I thought you were that dead guy," she said.
    "Thank you," I said.
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    SOMETIMES, WHEN RACHEL and I were waiting for our shift to start, we'd get coffees from the cafeteria and wander around the hospital. We liked to make up stories about what was wrong with the people in the rooms we passed.
    "Flesh-eating disease," I said of a man whose entire body was covered in bandages. "The nurses are afraid to touch him."
    "Cancer," Rachel said when we went past a room with a woman on a lung machine. "But she never smoked a cigarette in her life."
    "Attempted suicide," I said of a young woman who sat in a wheelchair by a window, drooling. "She took all the pills in her apartment when her boyfriend