Frank.

“Frank?” she enquired.

“Frank?” He replied.

“Frank.”

“I’m not Frank.” eyes down, cradled in his thumbs. Crocheting himself a blanket with the threads of his idle stare. He was often wrong about this sort of thing. But he had long ago decided to stick to what he believed. A lot simpler that way.

She looked down her list again. “Frank, you have a visitor.”

He lifted up his eyes with his brain and his neurons and the muscles in his head. Lifted them up and propped them on his eyelids and sat them there and let them rest for a moment. And he let them find the nurse and reach her face. Young black woman with colourful hair. Pink and green, he thought. Probably. “I’m not…” he poked at the curled pages of her clipboard, with his finger and his arm and his shoulder and his neurons and his brain, and peeled a page back. “You missed one.”

Embarrassed, “oh… oh. Sorry Paul,” she checked again. No visitors for Paul. Lucky Frank.