'Your son is still alive,'� the doctor pronounced after a meticulous examination.

'Thank goodness,'� the mother breathed, the sadness unclenching her vocal cords.

The doctor placed his stethoscope on the table beside Gabrielle's motionless boy. The instrument's cold surface contacted the stainless steel operating table with a metallic clink, final and indisputable.

The doctor's examination room, and the rest of his office, was curiously devoid of decoration. One would expect plaques and certificates, educational posters and diagrams, various medical equipment. Not so in Dr. Moriarity's office. Its most defining characteristic was its lack of defining characteristics: bare, white walls, empty cabinets, wide open spaces. It had all the charisma of an unfurnished apartment.

Aside from three people and the table, the room's contents included one stethoscope, which Dr. Moriarity had carried in with him, and a small rubber trash bin abandoned in one corner.
'But, although he is alive, young Jacob demonstrates no signs of life. His heart doesn't beat, his lungs no longer breathe oxygen, and he is incapable of detectable thought waves.

'However, I assure you, your son is very much alive and well.'�

Jacob exhibited no signs of it, but he was in peak physical condition, according to the good doctor, and 'the healthiest child I've seen in thirty years of practicing medicine.'� The news'that her only child, the only remnant of her failed marriage, still lived'was the happiest of Gabrielle Tremulos' life.

Any discerning reader should ask: if there were no signs of life, how did the doctor know Jacob was alive?

Dr. Moriarity's motive for declaring Jacob alive was that Gabrelle had paid the esteemed physician a large sum of money, and she wanted to hear that her son was alive. Dr. Moriarity could smell the money in Jacob's ongoing 'treatment.'� Dead presidents told Moriarity to diagnose Jacob's condition as such.

'My suggestion,'� the venerable physician continued, ruffling the boy's hair, 'is to ignore him. Young children are temperamental, especially when they don't get their way. He expects some sort of special treatment. When he discovers it isn't coming, he'll snap right out of it.'�

*

'Honestly, Jacob. You have to eat something,'� Gabrielle directed at her son's motionless form two days later. 'You'll waste away to nothing.'�

Jacob apparently desired to fast, as on the entire previous day. He asserted this intention by refusing to breathe. The kitchen table and a plastic lawn chair sandwiched Jacob's body, propping it upright.

'Come on, Bucko. Mac and Cheese. Your favorite.'�

Not even the nigh irresistible taste of Kraft Mac 'n Cheese would revive Jacob from his meditative state.

A thin tendril of smoke wormed its way through her two bedroom apartment, distributing a delicious scent of incense through the air. Gabrielle, with tears in her eyes, looked at her only son, at his sallow, sunken cheeks and his yellowing, nutrition deprived skin. She knew argument was futile; when Jacob got an idea in his head, no matter how ridiculous, he was stubborn as a mule. Better to leave him alone. Moriarity was right.

Leaving her dishes for the morning, Gabrielle excused herself from the table. In the living room, she sat in her second hand easy chair and flipped through a battered copy of 'The Single Mother's Survival Guide.'�

*

Jacob would not attend school, even at his mother's insistence. He spent his days lounging on the sofa in front of a flickering television screen and, on one occasion, accompanying his mother on a trip to the grocery store.

Intending to coax him from his stance, Gabrielle let him ride in the cart's front, like he always wanted. But like the Mac 'n Cheese and the unquestioned absences from school, ungrateful, spoiled Jacob took her olive branch and snapped it in two.

She pretended as if his silence didn't disturb her. She didn't want to give Jacob the satisfaction of knowing how his lack of participation bothered her, so she wandered the aisle, ticking off her grocery list, like any other day. She ignored the wide mouthed gawks and gasps from passing strangers. She would not be embarrassed by a child's display of civil disobedience!

In the parking lot, Gabrielle removed him from the shopping cart and placed his body in her 1990 Corolla GTS. Toyota had discontinued the line in 1991.

Gabrielle attempted small talk with Jacob, offering him a secret ice cream before dinner, but got frustrated with his unresponsiveness. She turned on her car's stereo, soothing herself with a personal favorite, John Lennon's 'Imagine.'� She sped off towards home, getting lost in thoughts of the evening meal preparation.

*

The ordeal surrounding her son tested Gabrielle to the emotional breaking point. They had shared their fair portion of disagreements in the past, but never had Jacob rebelled in such a decidedly final fashion. Three days after Dr. Moriarity's uplifting diagnosis, Jacob still would not budge in his position.

'Please, honey. I know you're upset with me about something, but let's talk about it. This stalemate won't accomplish anything.'�

Jacob, headstrong and stubborn as ever, continued to voice his displeasure by employing the silent treatment.

Gabrielle looked from Jacob to the uneaten veal parmigiana, cooling in its marinara sauce, and back to Jacob. His body was situated at a peculiar, almost unnatural angle, suspended in mid-air between the chair back and the table in front of him. For a singularly long moment, his tiny, exhausted body appeared to be gathering momentum for a final effort. His head drooped forward first, connecting his chin to his chest, and then the rest of his body followed suit, slumping forward and smashing his face into a plate of veal parmigiana with a soft, wet sound and a spatter of marinara across the table's green linens.

With a muffled grunt, Jacob raised his head and opened his eyes. She had outwaited the stubborn boy.

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