The islanders took turns to watch by Gilligan's bedside for the next few months, tending his bodily injuries, feeding him liquid meals to keep him alive and talking to him about the various mundanities of their day. Sometimes Ginger would even sing to him, all in the desperate hope that he would hear and come back to them. But each day he remained unconscious and completely unresponsive that hope ebbed further and further away. They knew they would continue to care for him like this for as long as it took, as they would for any of them, until he woke up or they were rescued or 'til he or even they… Well they didn't like to think about that possibility. They just decided to take each day as it came, but they couldn't help but feel despondent as they went about their usual chores.

The Professor managed to manufacture a primitive antibiotic and thankfully Gilligan wasn't beset by fever or infection but neither did he come out of his coma. He just lay there in spite of Mrs Howell's words of motherly love, Mr Howell's bribes, Ginger's seductions and Mary Ann's simple, kind words of friendship. Even the Skipper's affected attempt at a stern, fatherly attitude seemed to make no difference. Eventually all succumbed to tears at the sight of their friend, apparently unmoved by their words, lying deathly still on the bed.

Now alone in his hut the Professor dropped into the chair by Gilligan's side with a sigh and took hold of his hand. They would carry on he knew, they had to, but he could already see that they would do so with a heavy heart. Maybe, in time, they would even come to feel resentment towards him. And it would be understandable but so terribly unfair. Gilligan didn't ask for this, he didn't do it on purpose, and while he may be prone to them it was an accident.

"Come on Gilligan, we need you to get better."

Even as he said it he noticed how selfish even such a good sentiment sounded, but they really did. Not just so they didn't have to look after him anymore or so they could stop worrying about him or even so that he could resume his duties but because life on the island was a lot less bearable when he wasn't there.

Although they hadn't known it before they all missed his chattering, his ability to easily be friends with pretty much anyone, human or animal, his strange idiosyncratic take on life, his way of translating the Professor's own technical know-how into layman speak without even knowing it, even if it wasn't necessary. He just didn't know what they'd do without Gilligan.

As he sank deeper in thought it occurred to him that although they might give him a hard time Gilligan hadn't actually been the ultimate cause of many of their failed rescue attempts. It was often more a case of a breakdown in communication. Take the instance with the phosphorescent paint, he'd put it right in the midst of the bowls of food Gilligan was eating without telling him what it was and even told him to "keep eating," it wasn't Gilligan's fault he followed his instructions. It was just a good job the stuff wasn't poisonous.

He decided to make a promise then and there and he'd make the others stick to it too.

"Gilligan, when you wake up I promise we will all treat you better. There'll be no more blaming you for failed rescue attempts, no more demands that you fetch and carry when we could easily do it ourselves and most importantly we will listen to you when you tell us that you have seen things no matter how bizarre or outlandish they may sound."

Gilligan remained motionless.

The Professor slowly lost his own composure as, overcome, he bent sobbing over the young man's body. He hadn't done enough, he should have been quicker.

Gradually he collected himself with little hiccups and once more took Gilligan's hand in his. After a few moments he felt a slight pressure against his palm and looked down in astonishment barely daring to hope.

"Gilligan?"

It was there again, almost imperceptible, and it seemed to take a lot of effort, but it was there.

Maybe they were in the market for miracles after all.