The cops got out of the car and walked over to where Harry was lying on the sidewalk, blood seeping from his head, his arms wrapped around his body protecting his coat in a death grip. The cops looked down at him for a moment… Seems to be alive.

Yeah… Guess we’d better put in a call.

The other cop nodded and strolled back to the car and called an ambulance.

A dozen or so people milled around Harry, asking what had happened, shaking their heads or relating what they had seen or surmised; some passersby stopped to join them or to look for a moment then move on, others slowing slightly and seeing it was just a bum hurried on their way.

The doctors did what they could for him but Harry was not expected to live through the night, and at 4 a.m. his heart actually stopped beating, but an alert nurse pounded his chest, his heart responding with a feeble but constant beat. Every function of his body was monitored and checked with amazement, there being no known medical explanation for his still being alive.

The fourth day they started having hope that he would live. Not because there had been any improvement in his condition, everything was still the same, but simply because it somehow seemed inevitable. Then, about 4’30 a.m., his body started to convulse from alcoholic withdrawal. His condition got worse and worse rapidly, yet still he lived, something inside him refusing to give up.

Treating the convulsions was in itself a simple matter but the treatment tended to aggravate his other condition, and so the hospital personnel had to maintain a delicate balance so they would not bring about his death from one condition while treating the other.

Miraculously he survived the convulsions and the treatment, and after being in a coma for a week he regained consciousness for a brief period, his eyes barely focusing, but able to nod his head when asked if he could hear, then mumbled something about his coat before drifting once again into unconsciousness. From that moment on his recovery was slow, sometimes barely discernible, but steady.

A week later he was able to talk and was visited by a clerk from the records office. She smiled and sat down next to the bed and explained that as he was unconscious, and had no identification when he was brought in, she had to ask him a few questions Alright? Do you feel up to it?

He nodded. They didnt get my coat, did they?

What? What coat?

The one I was wearing. They tried to get my coat.

Oh…. Im sure its down in the clothing room just like all the others.

The information seemed to take a while to register, but eventually it did and he sighed inwardly… then nodded his head.

Now then, I need a little information. It wont take long. Name?

Harry. Harry Wright.

Address?

Harry spoke softly and slowly with obvious effort, The Bowery.

The Bowery? Dont you have a permanent mailing address?

He moved his hand in a negative motion. The Bowerys permanent. It aint movin.

Nothing more specific?

He moved his hand slightly.

She smiled and shrugged. Age?

40.

In case of emergency who do you want notified?

I dont really care… He smiled slightly, Gallo Brothers.

Gallo Brothers?

He smiled a little broader, Ernest and Julio.

O???? Then she understood and smiled. The winemakers.

Harry blinked his eyes.

She was still smiling, Well, I guess we had better leave that blank. Occupation?

He moved his jaw in a shrugging gesture… Dishwasher.

Have you ever been a patient here before?

I dont know.

Dont know?

He shook his head slightly… I dont know where I am.

Oh… Bellevue.

Nope. He winced as a pain pierced his head, then exhaled sharply, exhausted and tired.

The clerk looked at her form, then at him, I think thats enough for now. You get some rest. She got up to leave.

Do me a favor? See if my coats alright?

She started to say something, then just smiled and nodded, Sure.

Thanks. Harry closed his eyes and slept.

When he awoke he asked the nurse if the clerk had called about his coat.

Coat?

She was going to check to see if its alright.

She probably hasnt had time to yet. Im sure she’ll take care of it.

Harry nodded within himself, unable to really think about it, not sure when he saw the clerk… not sure about anything actually. Every now and then there would be a slight glimmer of light, but it would be quickly absorbed by mist and he could not find the energy to really grasp a thought for any length of time and would just drift off into sleep.

Through the following days whenever he was conscious Harry would wonder about his coat and if it was alright, if he was still wearing it when he got here and, if he was, what had happened to it after he got here. Everytime someone came near him he wanted to ask them about his coat, but couldnt seem to summon up the energy. Eventually he felt a couple of days must have passed since he spoke with the clerk, not absolutely certain because he spent so much time sleeping and was still confused about time, but whether it was or not the pressure was building to the point where he had no choice but to ask the nurse again if the clerk had called about his coat.

She frowned agitatedly, What coat?

My coat—Harry could feel himself starting to tremble -remember I asked -

O that. No. Nobody has called about anything. But she said… can you call her?

I dont have time to make calls about coats. I have all I can do right now.

But I have to know. I dont know if—he started to get up, but a sudden pain took his breath away and he fell back on the bed.

Pain in your head?

He could hardly mutter.

The nurse rushed from the room and quickly returned with a hypo and soon the pain subsided and Harry once more drifted off to sleep.

Harry continued to ask about his coat, never being certain if he was asking many times in one day or once in many days, but when the pressure built to the point where he no longer had a choice, he asked, and when he was given an evasive answer he got so upset he usually had to be sedated and another note was made on his chart. Eventually the doctor asked about the notes on his chart and the nurses told him about Harrys preoccupation with his coat and the doctor wrote a request that Harry be interviewed by a psychiatrist, And for krists sake, in the meantime tell him the coats alright.

When a nurse told Harry that his coat was alright he seemed to change instantly, tension draining from his body almost visibly, a hint of color returning to his cheeks. He could feel an endless sigh flow through his body as he drifted back to sleep.

Harry was relaxed, but still a little groggy, when a young psychiatrist visited him one morning. Harry had not been shaved for 3 or 4 days, his head was swathed in bandages that were stained with blood and antiseptics, and he was still wired so his bodily functions could be monitored. The psychiatrist looked at him for a moment, You look depressed.

Harry just blinked.

How do you feel?

Harry shrugged slightly, Okay.

The psychiatrist made a few notes. You seem to be concerned about your clothing.

My coat. I wanted to be sure it was alright.

Were you wearing it when you were admitted?

Harry looked at him for a moment, I dont know.

The psychiatrist made more notes, then looked at Harry. I see. Do you often have lapses of memory?

Harry looked at him, blinking, feeling more and more intimidated. He started sweating. I was unconscious.

The psychiatrist peered at him for a moment, then made another note. Are you often so obsessive about your possessions?

Harry stared, his head shaking slightly, trying earnestly to understand what it was the doctor wanted. He listened hard, and heard the words but he just could not seem to make any sense out of them. They did not seem to have anything to do with him… or anything he could think of. Harry did not know what he had done wrong. All Harry could do was look and twist his face into a frown…