He awoke in an unfamiliar bed with a massive headache. A woman in her forties was standing beside him. Her hair was her most distinctive feature—dyed titian red, with the roots showing mousy brown. She was adjusting his IV.

She must be a nurse, he thought to himself. I must be in the hospital. But why?

As his senses slowly returned, he saw that the walls were painted dark blue instead of the usual off-white he associated with hospitals, and there were no windows to let the sunshine in. The floor was carpeted, and the furniture was made out of wood, exquisitely carved to look antique. In fact, he recognized some of the trademarks from his own collection, so at least some of it probably was antique.

The woman noticed that he was awake. She gave him a thin smile.

“Hello, Mr. Jackson. My name is Rachel. I’m supposed to give you this.”

She held out an envelope. He stared at it for a few moments, then reached up to take it. His hands were like wax, thin and transparent, the veins bulging against the bones.

“Don’t try to get up yet. You’re still very weak.”

“What happened?” he asked. His voice was barely above a whisper, and even that scratched against his throat.

Rachel looked hesitant. “You were very sick.” Luckily her cell phone buzzed, saving her from having to answer his questions. “I have to step out. If you need anything, just press the button,” she said, gesturing at a panel on the wall above him. He nodded, too weak to speak.

Once she was gone, his eyes drifted to the envelope on his lap. With trembling hands he tore it open and unfolded a handwritten letter.

Michael Jackson,

You are no doubt wondering where you are, who I am, and why I brought you here. I can’t answer the first two questions, but I can provide an answer to the third. You are here to get well. This is only possible under my supervision. Murray is unfit for the job, and you yourself have proven extremely stubborn when it comes to your health and wellbeing.

The world currently believes you are dead. Your family, friends, fans, and enemies alike all think you suffered from cardiac arrest brought on by an overdose of propofol. A body double has been presented as yours.

You are most likely alarmed at the prospect of being dead to the world, and I’m sure you’re worried about your loved ones. In that regard the only comfort I can offer is that, having reviewed the psych profiles of your family members and close friends, I believe they are all mentally sound enough to handle your death, as well as your inevitable “resurrection”. Indeed, you will see them again when the time is right.

Until then, do not try to pester my assistants for more information. They don’t have the answers. And don’t worry—I will only give you the necessary medications to ensure your full recovery.

Sincerely,

A Friend

His left hand, the bony fingers still clutching the paper, dropped onto the blanket. His right hand reached up and covered his eyes.

Dead… They all think I’m dead?...

The throbbing headache worsened. Letting go of the letter, he pressed the button to summon Rachel.

She arrived almost immediately. “What is it, Mr. Jackson?”

“I want to go back to sleep,” he whispered, “Is there anything you can give me?...”

Rachel held back. Her expression spoke of sadness and pity. “I’m sorry. I can’t—”

“Please,” he struggled to rise, “Just this once. Just enough to help me sleep.”

The color drained from her face. White as a ghost, she closed the door on him.

“Don’t go! Please! Don’t leave me!...”