‘I’m so sorry,’ Bob whimpered, as tears trickled down his cheeks. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I’m sorry I always gave you the smallest serve of the meals. I’m sorry I gave you hottest beer first. I’m sorry I put the chilli in your toothpaste, on the toilet seat, and on the rim of your beer glass. Sorry, I diluted your rum with tea when I pinched your stash. I’m sorry I syphoned the fuel out of your truck, weekly. I’m really sorry I slept with your sister and your mother – but never with any of your girlfriends. Mates never go there. I’m sorry I stole your credit card that time and booked up a roomful of hookers. I’m sorry I dobbed you into the cops who shot you. Sorry—’
‘What the—’ The sheet flung back, and he glared up at Bob.
Bob blinked at his mate sitting up on the gurney in the hospital’s corridor. ‘Why are you alive?’
‘I fell asleep hiding from the coppers. But you’re dead.’ He jumped off the trolley as Bob backed away.
‘Mate, I was making it all up. I’m Sorryyyyyyyy…’ And was chased down the corridors.