His eyelids flutter down.
As the father and the mother further consider the Doctor’s prostrate body, in a supreme moment of pareidolia, his shaking fingers unclench from the sheets, then seem to reach toward a dried arrangement of fruit tree branches on a nearby table. Those pretty black twigs both obscure his necessaries and infer them as he pants, then plucks a juicy ripe apple from the boughs of what appears to be his…
Then, raising up the fruit in both hands above himself like a supplicant into view of the moon outside the window, he tries with all great care concentrated in his hoppy forearms and quaking back to set it on the table, and succeeds. Done with it, he sighs, and lets his last sight be the apple that drifts him away. His length of frame wasted and renewed, he pulls the sheets off his body, and lets them drop to the floor, his mind clicking into place.
Into the long hallway.