If I remember correctly, I was stumbling, not struggling to see the wet concrete steps that my feet were scaling. The light that rotated around and around, periodically illuminating my white pale hands and the railing, altered my perception. The grey brick structure was wet with rain. We ourselves were going around and around, making it to the center, one at a time, to meet the light source, but none was there, so I never figured out where the light was coming from, save for some dim yellow floodlights stapled above us. Jack was far behind me. I was walking up the steps, but Jack had slipped and fallen on an incline, and there was some blood on the center of his forehead. I ran back. The spinning light made the blood shine. Jack was responding to the doctor's questions. "Are you okay?" He was acting like a child in fetal position, his eyes shut tight and mentally absent. He was slowly and obstinately squirming on the floor in his green coat and the rain was making his right eye twitch in the blinding rotating light. "No!" He said it like he had just learned how to speak. I told him he was going to be just fine. I grabbed his shoulder. I turned him toward me. His eyes were crossed, and I saw the wound was worse than I thought because his forehead was torn open and filled with dark blood, like a lake, because he was laying on his back, and when he turned over it spilled into the concrete and mixed with the rain. I saw blood on the gray brick wall, where his head hit. I looked back and the doctor was getting wet with rain and Jack's eyes were crossing, and his limbs were moving in directions decided by the final firing of his dying neurons and his lips brought phrases and fragments from the stuff of his early childhood and sputtered them out with his eyes rolling in the glowing, bloody rain. I don't remember how the dream ended.