The Truth
Harold gives a sudden jerk in his bed and groans, the first sound he's made. Ingram starts up and stares at him and finds him staring back.
"Harold?"
"Nathan—wha—?"
Ingram shouts out the door, and the nurse comes running. She's a young, sweet, talented girl named Megan. After the hubbub of doctors and examinations has died down, Ingram returns to Harold's room. The little man stares at him again.
"Am I dead?"
"No, Harold."
"But you're dead, Nathan."
In their three or four brief interactions, Harold has never called him Nathan. As a proper employee to his superior, he has only ever called him Mr. Ingram.
"I'm dreaming, then. Did Root shoot me? Where's John?"
"You weren't shot, Harold. You were in an explosion. Do you remember?"
"An explosion? At the train station? Is John dead, Nathan?"
"I don't know who John is, Harold. There was no train station. It was in your office."
Horror crosses Harold's face. "My library? Was it Root? No one knows about the library except her."
"Harold, lie still. I don't know what you mean. You don't work in a library. You work for me, in my IT department. Some people were trying to destroy something I built, and they got you instead."
"The Machine, right. Someone found out I was the one who actually built it, but Root murdered him."
Ingram stares at him. "Harold, you didn't build my Machine. I built it. You worked on some of the minor programming."
Harold isn't listening. "Anyway, you're already dead, Nathan. They got you in 2010, I'm afraid."
"It's 2009."
"No, it's 2012."
"Harold, listen to me carefully. You've been in a coma for nearly a week. You've been dreaming, I think. Very vividly, it looks like."
Harold closes his eyes wearily. "Root, if this is another one of your plots, I'm not falling for it."
"Harold—"
Harold won't believe him.