RINGO

"I'm going to get some tea. Does anyone want anything?"

Paul turned to me and said, "No, thanks."

"None for me, thank you," Margo added.

I slowly nodded, and turned to George, who leaned against the wall, his hands folded. "George?" I said.

He looked at me, and straightened up.

"I'd fancy a cuppa," he replied. "I'll come with you."

"Alright," I said, and together we left the room. Our boots clicked down the hall, and we turned into the cafeteria.

"How's John doing?" I asked George, as we walked to the counter.

"He's alright. Hasn't gotten out of bed yet, but he's in pretty good spirits."

"Good to hear," I commented.

Upon being asked for our order, I answered, "Two teas, please."

The lady handed us our beverages, and after a bit of bickering, I paid. We started to walk back to the room.

"Does Paul know about him?" George asked before taking a sip of his coffee. "John, I mean."

"No, I didn't really get the chance to tell him," I said.

"Well, we can tell him right now." I nodded my agreement.

We walked into the room, where Margo sat staring out the window. Paul was asleep, his hand still in hers.

When she heard us walking in, she turned around, and gave a tired smile. George went back to his slouch against the wall, taking sips of his tea every now and then. I stood next to Margo, and looked down at Paul.

"Guess we'll have to wait to tell him about John," I said softly.

"Don't worry about that," Margo said with a sigh. "I told him."

George and I turned to her.

"And?" George said.

"Well," Margo began, staring down at their intertwined hands. "We were just talking, and I said something about all of you, and he started to... sort of... sulk. He said he was upset with John. I asked him why, and he said, 'He didn't care enough to come visit. I thought he was my best friend. I guess I was wrong.'

"And then I explained to him what happened with John. I thought he knew already, but it was news to him. He was shocked, mostly at himself for thinking that John would leave him alone like that. He was very worried. He kept asking if John would be okay, if he could talk to him. He was getting real panicked. It was scaring me. I had to call in a nurse, and she ended up...well... sedating him. I didn't think it would go that far, but here we are." She let out another sigh, and looked out the window again. Her free hand's fingers danced wildly on her lap.

George walked over and placed a hand on her shoulder. Margo relaxed a little. "Don't worry," he said to her. "It was probably just the stress of being in a hospital. He would've reacted differently had he been someplace else."

"And you know Paul has a flair for the dramatic," I said with a sweep of my hand. George chuckled at that.

Margo smiled gratefully. "You're probably right," she said to the two of us.

A nurse walked into the room. "Excuse me?" She looked at all of us. "Sorry to bother you, but there's someone on the phone for Mr. Starr. Or Mr. Harrison. Whoever is available."

George and I looked at each other. "I'll go," I volunteered. "You stay here, watch over the lovebirds."

George nodded with a smile. I followed the nurse to the lobby, and another nurse handed me the phone.

"Hello?"

"Ritch, have I the funniest story for you!" It was John.

"John! How are ya?" I said enthusiastically.

"A bit bumped and bruised, but otherwise fine," he answered curtly. "But that is beside the point. I've a very interesting tale to tell, and I think you would like to hear this."

"Alright," I said, folding my arms, the phone cradled at my neck.

"So here I am, lying in bed after a nice little beat-down, relaxing, and I decide to flick on the telly, see what's going on out in this great big world. I flip through the channels, and what do I see?"

He paused, for dramatic effect, and I felt my stomach twisting.

"Ritch!" he said, slightly angry. "Say 'what'!"

"W-what?" I muttered.

"None other than our wonderful pal Paul, who lies in a hospital after 'collapsing on stage during a performance in New York'," he put on his best impersonation of a news reporter, "and who all the wonderful Beatlemaniacs 'ave been crying about for the last millenium because of this horrible accident."

"John-"

"And you know what else your beaten-up, broken-down, aching and depressed narrator hears? 'There are doubts on whether he will ever tour again.' 'He may never see the stage again.' 'Is this the end of the Beatles?' 'Do we say goodbye forever to the band that changed the world?'"

John stopped talking, waiting for a reply. But I said nothing. I didn't know what to say.

"And now I have to ask you something," he continued. "Why did the bloody news tell me this, instead of my friends? Am I that unvalued?"

"No, John, it's not that," I said pleadingly. "It's hard. We... I.... didn't even tell Paul yet. He heard it on the telly, too, but I told him it wasn't true."

"And is it?" John asked, steel in his voice. "Is it true?"

I hesitated. "I..."

"It is true, isn't it?"

"John, I don't know-"

"It's a crock, you hear?" He started to yell. "It's a BLOODY CROCK!"

"John, please!" I said back. "Calm down!"

The line became quiet.

"Now," I said, sternly. "I know it's not the best of news, but the most important thing is Paul's health. The news may be lying, just trying to make a buck. They may be telling the truth. I don't know! All that matters is that we think of Paul, and how he is feeling. If we help him get better, then who knows? We might prove the telly wrong."

A pause. "Jesus," John muttered. "I'm sorry, mate. I'm a bloody drama queen, that's what I am."

"You're bloody right," I answered with a small smile.

"Aw, sod off," he replied, a grin in his voice. "You've got business to attend to, and I've a broken telly to fix, so I leave you with a goodbye."

"Alright," I said. "Goodbye."

"Wait," he said, before I put the phone down.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks." Another pause. "And I luv ya, mate."

"Oh, you softie!" I said with a chuckle, and then put the phone back down on its cradle. I thanked the nurse, and walked back down the hallway to the room.

JOHN

The phone clicked off, but I didn't put it back down right away. I listened to the quiet of the dead line, the empty one-sidedness of it. Then I clicked it down, the silence becoming deafening.

Someone knocked on the door, and I shouted, "It's open!" I quickly fumbled for my wig, which lied on the bed next to me, as I had thrown it before.

A big man walked in, with a toolkit. "I'm here for the broken T.V., sir?"

"Yes, yes," I said, my best impression of an American accent. "It's right over there."

He turned to it, and gasped. He stood in shock for a while, staring at the pile of glass and metal that lied in front of him.

"Sir..." he said.

"I was watching some wonderful football... uh, soccer.... and then the thing exploded! Gave me a fright, it did." I tried to keep a straight face, but it was incredibly difficult.

"Oh... I can't really... this can't be fixed, sir." He stared at me, dumbfounded.

"Then what am I payin' you for?" I shouted, flapping my arms.

"I'll call in for a new T.V., sir," he stuttered quickly. "It'll be here first thing tomorrow morning."

"Fine, fine," I waved him off. "But I'm only payin' half, since you didn't really fix anything."

"A-alright, sir," he started hobbling out of the room nervously. "Have a good day, sir."

He closed the door, and I burst out laughing. If only Paul were here to see this, I thought. He would've been gassed with it.