Dear Readers,
I wasn’t planning on writing a blog this month. Nothing big happened that I haven’t already shared, I had no thoughts worth typing out, and I was dangerously close to just uploading a picture of my breakfast and calling it content.
But last night I had a dream. One of those super vivid ones that sticks with you like an annoying jingle. It was futuristic, a little freaky, and surprisingly detailed. And since I have nothing else to give you, I thought: why not turn it into a mini story?
Here goes nothing…
The Hospital House
July 2033. The last of the homes had officially been taken off the national grid.
It was all solar now. A cleaner future, they claimed—but of course, big corporations had found a way to ration the sun. Low-income houses, like mine, got minimal supply. Lights blinked out every few hours, toasters were an indulgence, and boiling water was a luxury reserved for Thursdays. Maybe.
Most hospitals had been stripped down too. ICU wards? Gone. Entire departments shuttered. They had treatment clinics and operating theaters, sure, but if you needed post-op recovery, they’d transfer you to something called a Hospital House. Basically, if you had a spare room and no moral compass—or a need for unlimited power—you could register your home as a makeshift ICU.
I’d been considering it. I was sick of boiled eggs and sick of the silence. Ten years ago we worked remotely, streamed Netflix on loop, and let Spotify DJ our entire existence. Now I cooked in fear that my frying pan would suck the last trickle of electricity from my house.
On a dreary Friday morning, I woke up praying for a sunny day. I had, not-so-legally, installed extra solar panels. Didn’t help. The scorching summers of the past were gone, replaced by soggy humidity and halfhearted storms that didn’t power a single battery.
But I remembered I had saved one of yesterday’s boiled eggs. Small victories. I slentered—yes, that’s a slow, sad kind of slink—downstairs. That’s when I saw it: the big blue envelope.
An invitation to become a Hospital House.
My stomach turned. The idea of sleep pods installed in my hallway, and my guest room converted into a beeping ICU made my skin crawl. But then I thought of Netflix. And toast. And decent showers. So, chewing my egg, I filled out the form and posted it.
They responded in under 24 hours. Desperate, clearly.
By Wednesday evening, everything was set. Doctor Dean and Nurse Julie arrived with calm smiles and suitcases full of sleek medical gear. They greeted me, then vanished into their pods for rest. But rest didn’t last long.
That night, a patient arrived. A young American male. Vacation gone wrong. Emergency surgery had saved his life, and now he needed a recovery bed. Mine. I didn’t read much beyond that—I didn’t want to know. ICU setups freaked me out. I resolved to stay out of the room entirely.
But the beeping… my God, the beeping. It haunted the hallway like some digital ghost. At night, I’d tiptoe to the bathroom like a ninja with a full bladder, trying not to disturb the machines or the strangers keeping them running.
One night, the sounds grew louder. The ventilator hissed steadily, I realised the bedroom door stood slightly open. I peeked. Lights blinked in rhythmic patterns. It was like looking into a spaceship cockpit.
“Zach’s been stable long enough to wake him tomorrow,” Nurse Julie whispered, suddenly beside me. I jumped a full foot in the air.
She explained that Zach had been in a coma since arriving. Face injuries. Breathing issues. Surgery had gone well, but no one knew yet if his lungs could handle life on their own.
“No family?” I asked.
“No one’s called,” she said.
That bothered me more than I expected. I decided to be there when they woke him.
The next morning, I found myself sitting beside a frail young man with unruly black curls and a very big breathing tube. I thought, If I’m freaked out, how will he react when he wakes up?
Hours later, he did. With help. His first breath, unaided by machines, was followed by a quiet cough and a raspy, “Where… am I?”
Everything happened fast after that. Maybe too fast. They had barely let him sit upright before starting to discuss discharge plans. Day clinics, hotel accommodations, visa limitations—he’d be gone by next week.
“No,” I blurted out before I could think.
The government agreed to let him stay if I waived the rental income and kept the medical team housed. Unlimited power in exchange for human kindness. I could live with that.
Zach improved quickly. His body filled out, his curls tamed themselves, and he even started taking walks around the neighborhood. He took up nature photography and filled our kitchen with stories and laughter. After months of quiet poverty, my house suddenly felt alive again.
But then his visa renewal was denied. He had to go back.
The night before his departure, he came home with two boxes—one small, one large. The logos told me exactly where he’d been. Camera gear. He grinned and showed me his newest passion. Nature photography, far removed from the busy life he used to live.
Then he showed me the video games. One by one. All from my wishlist.
“These are for you,” he said. “Thanks for everything.”
I almost cried over a limited-edition joystick.
We agreed I’d take him to the airport. But in the morning, he was gone.
Panicked, I dashed out, hopped in my little automated car, and yelled, “Airport, now!”
I arrived breathless, scanning the terminals, shouting, “Zach!”
At the check-in line, I spotted the red-and-white camera box.
“Zach!” I called. “I thought we were going together!”
“I didn’t want the drama,” he said, smiling.
“What drama?”
But before he could answer, a giant video billboard above the terminal lit up.
COMING THIS SUMMER: THE NEW PAUL INGRAM BLOCKBUSTER.
There he was. Standing on a cliff in cinematic glory. Alive, well, and very much famous.
My jaw dropped.
“Zach?” I whispered. “No… Paul?”
Turns out I’d been hosting a recovering film star the entire time. Paul Ingram. He’d been badly injured while filming here. Lucky for him, the final scene had already wrapped. Lucky for me, I didn’t recognize his face under all those tubes and bruises.
He looked back at me, grinned, and said, “Best hospital I’ve ever been in.”
And just like that, he disappeared through the gate.
I walked back to my little car, dazed, stunned… and grateful.
Who knew being a Hospital House could change everything?
So yeah, Dear Readers… turns out my brain writes sci-fi when it’s bored and under-caffeinated. I dreamed I was low on electricity, high on anxiety, and accidentally hosting a Hollywood A-lister in my ICU-themed guest room. Normal stuff.
Anyway, thanks for sticking with me through this strange little detour. Maybe next time I’ll return with actual life updates. Or maybe I’ll just have another weird dream.
Stay powered up,
Love, CJ.
CRS Life 