Why, it's just like television, she thinks.

She is so frustrated. They've put her here, here, when every second counts. She had to help him, and yet they came and pulled her off him as if they were prying off a distasteful parasite. They didn't understand, he was so cold, and she had to hold him and warm him, bring the sweet softness back to his stiff cheeks, give him her life, but they just carried her away, and tied her limbs so she couldn't punch, and gagged her mouth so she couldn't bite.

They placed her in a chair in a classically masculine office full of wood panelling, Courier and Ives prints, and stupid brass paper-weights, and gingerly removed the gag. Ah, a psychiatrist, a reasonable man, he'll understand, she thought. She tried to explain to the psychiatrist that she had to go back down and get him out of the drawer, for God's sake, you can't just refridgerate people or they'll die, anyone knows that. She wept and pleaded and chaffed at her bonds until her hands bled, but the quack would not listen to reason and babbled some nonsense about her one true love being dead already.

In her mind she crafted plan after heroic plan to rescue him, but they were just too strong for her. They bound her, hit her, stuck her with their horrid needles, and locked her in this wretched cell. She can never save him now. It's all their fault. He is surely dead, suffocated and frozen in their chrome morgue.

As the new light of day filters in through the window, she is still crying in disconsolate mourning. But she can move! She is in a warm bed, not a bare cell! Next to her, miraculously, she can hear his breathing and feel his precious body, warm, and perfect, and alive. But he was dead, she thinks, as she fondles his smooth, beautiful shoulders. He whimpers at the bothersome awakening, and his voice is breathtakingly beautiful. He realizes sleepily that she is crying, and wraps his arms around her closely. "What is it, baby?" he murmurs, and then he promptly falls back to sleep.

How horrible, she thinks. Love is having nightmares about his death instead of my own.