To the world I must convey a distressing piece of news. Dib is to be disconnected from the wires and machines in one week, if he does not wake.
He breathes, in and out. I remain in the position I'm in, (the corner) and absent-mindedly scribble my annotations of the day. The glaring brightness in this place bombards my eyes with such an onslaught of photons that I am constantly squinting. I hiss to myself, for I cannot shut them.
I will concur on one previous observation; Dib is, apparently, not totally alone. The odd child from his class, Zim, came to stare on more than one occasion. Zim makes no moves towards Dib during these encounters; he just spits out an incongruously associated sequence of insults at him. After venting and waving his arms about in a vaguely menacing fashion, Zim departs.
I think Dib is right.
Professor Membrane is a curious individual. He seems to be almost above his fellow man; albeit that position is in the name of science. Very little is known to the public regarding his personal life.
One can, indirectly, know of a person through the others that know him. In the case of the Professor, his children. Their lack of knowledge tells me everything I need to know.
The professor is already immortal in the minds of men. Because of this, even I don't need the truth. He has made his truth. His perception.
Free, perpetual power. Medical advances. Temporal displacement.
To others, the truth is in the light that comes on when they flip the switch. The truth is in the child crippled by a debilitating disease.
That's all the truth we want.
I glance over at the hospital bed, and speculate on whether certain sacrifices are acceptable.