Hear a solitary bird and wonder why it - like me - is awake when the rest are sleeping? Way too early to be bringing in the dawn but for some reason it sings, chirping along ahead of the chorus.

Peak writing time, the traffic has dulled; those returning from nights out tucked in bed and those setting out for work not yet on the road; a small quiet window in which to create something new.

My head hurts. Started during the conversation with my protégé but I ignored it then, allowing words and laughter to mask it. Now it pounds without these distractions and I feel slightly nauseous. Bed. No writing to be had today, at least not at this time.

Lie on my side and go into that place. The mental file open, I choose one scenario out of the many I've concocted over the months.

...The café is in a quiet side-street in his city; exposed brick walls with shelves serving as bookcases. It's a writer's hangout, most of the tables taken up by versions of me - and him. I walk in and spot him seated towards the back of the narrow space, bent over his laptop; a coffee and a bottle of water the only other items on the sturdy timber table. He is engrossed in something and doesn't look up as I make my way to a table nearer the front.

The waitress approaches and I order my usual espresso. Done this three days in a row now, coming here and mostly observing him, reveling in his nearness. Remove my laptop and power it up, place a pad and pen alongside as has been my daily ritual.

"Good morning Kansas. Feeling much better today."

"I am at coffee shop dear," comes his reply a few seconds later. "Doing some reading. Good that you feel better. "

"Nice! And yes, managed a few hours' sleep though I missed you!"

It still feels odd, speaking to him so near. He assumes me half the world away. I let the conversation continue, loving this time of being close without his knowing.

"I missed you more."   

"Haha, only been a day and we're acting like lovesick kids!"

"Lovesick? lol"

"Lol! Gtg do some shopping, catch you laters?"

"I'll be around for a while then have to do some chores myself. Laters dear."

It's time. I pack my things away and walk to the back of the café where the restrooms are situated. As I pass him I turn to look at some books, nudging his shoulder with the large messenger bag hanging off mine. Pretend I don't notice. I know he will see the tattoo, my black singlet with crossover straps leaving it in full view.

"Either I'm not in Kansas anymore or some crazy Aussie woman-"

"That be me, crazy for sure," I say turning around to face him, hearing his voice for the first time.

"I knew you were up to something."

"Kansas, there be a quiet lane a few doors down. Go, I'll follow you there." I grin, realizing I am speaking the same way I write.

"You Aussies sure talk funny! Lol!" He too mimics our online conversations.

"Do it!"

Pretend to still browse at books till he packs up and is out the door. Then I follow, turning right. Spot him entering the laneway. Take my time. When I reach it, I see him standing a short distance away. Prop my bag out of view behind some discarded boxes. He looks puzzled. I take a step, then another then another, picking up pace and... then I run to him!

"Catch me Kansas!"

I launch myself when I am near, wrapping arms and legs around his body as he quickly drops his bag at his feet and reaches for me.

"You a monkey now?"

He is laughing and I laugh too, my face buried in his neck. "You remembered the email!"

Thump.

It takes a second or two to realize the sound is not part of this flight in the night but rather reaching me from the room below mine. Rush out of bed and almost fall, jumping two steps at a time down the staircase without turning on the lights. Dad is on the floor in his room, half on the carpet, and half on the tiles in his ensuite. What the fuck!

"Dad?" My mind struggling, caught up in that most perfect moment, still breathing in the smell of him... I shake dad, more to rouse myself. "Dad?"

He looks confused. Take quick note of his position, assess whether he's hit his head. See the redness over his right temple extending to his cheek. I know a large bruise will form there since the blood thinner stops his blood from clotting. Door frame? Side table? He's obviously tried to stand and toppled to his right. Yet he has weakness on his left side from the big stroke. Hmmm.

Shut the bedroom door so mum doesn't wake up and start her usual tirade. He still lies there unmoving, exactly as he's fallen. I know his mind stops during these falls. He doesn't know he needs to get up?

"Dad, let me help you sit up on the bed, I want to have a look see if you hurt yourself anywhere else."  He stares at me uncomprehendingly.

I try lifting him by one arm but he's dead weight. At close to 100 kilos and me weighing 50, it's always a tough call. Sometimes he half falls off the bed and it's easier then to get him back up on my own. This time I know I have to wake Dylan.

"Stay there, don't try to move, I'll get Dylan to help."

Bolt upstairs and gently shake Dylan. He's only been asleep a short while.

"Grandpa's fallen again hon, I need your help."

I see him struggle to wake. A sense of unfairness enters my mind. My son should not be doing this! But he does it time and time again without protest and with a tenderness belittling my own.

Back downstairs we pull and we push, between us managing to get him seated on the bed. He is hunched over due to the drug-induced Parkinson's and staring at the floor so I have to manually lift his head up.

"Do you remember what happened? How you fell?"

"I am okay. I just slipped."

"You didn't slip, there's nothing to slip on. Did you get dizzy?"

"No, I am okay, let me just sit here."

"I can't do that! You might have hurt yourself!"

"If you call an ambulance I am going to leave, you hear?"

I sense the beginning of the ritual - quickly escalating to him swearing and trying to shake us off, and shuffle for the door. I deflect by running him past the usual set of questions to determine if an ambulance is needed: What day is it, what month, what year, where do you live; I omit the "who is our Prime Minister" since we change them so often I forget myself... and then assess each reply. He gets the day wrong - okay it's the middle of the night - I make an allowance. The month is behind by two. He says the year is 1916 - that's a worry because for some reason he loses a century after every mini stroke and always reverts to the 1900's.

"What do you think Dylan?"

"Call the ambulance."

"Grandma will wake up, the dog will bark, wake Marcus and... you know what the ambos will say. Usual."

"Call them anyway!"

"Okay, you stay with him make sure he's responding and I'll call from upstairs. Then I'll wake grandma."

"The side of his face is getting redder mum?" The worry in his face is palpable.

"It's okay hon, just surface blood, will be a bruise for a few days."

Upstairs I recite the ritual to the dispatcher. An ambulance is sent out. Back down I wake mum up and she rushes to the room half crying half yelling and asking why he keeps getting up in the middle of the night. Same old.

"Dad, I called an ambulance, do you want to lie down or sit here? Or Dylan can help you walk out to the couch?"

"Fuck your God, I told you not to do that," he mumbles, raising his head to glare at me. I ignore him.

Ambos arrive five minutes later and I re-tell what little I know again. As one writes and the other starts checking dad, I drift away. Kansas seems too far to reach now though; I try and try to get back there just for a moment, just for a breath. I always breathe so well when I drift into my sojourns with him?

"We could take him in but there's not much that can be done?"

"Sorry?" Drag myself back to the room and my reality.

"His blood pressure's a little high but not extreme. Heartbeat still in AF but no indicators of heart-attack. The bruising looks superficial so it's not too much of a concern."

"It's another mini-stroke," I tell them. "He has them often. It's not his heart?"

"Could be as you say. So what do you want to do? It's your call."

"Keep him home I guess?" It's my call more and more these days, I realize.

"Yeah," the younger of the two agrees. "Monash is on bypass anyway so we'd have to take him to Dandenong."

"Busy night?"

He laughs. "Isn't it always these days?"

I smile, but I want to shake my head at the absurdity of engaging in small talk as my father sits hunched over with vacant eyes pointed to the floor.

"If anything changes, give us a call back?"

"Sure. Thanks for coming out guys. Appreciate it."

"You did the right thing."

They pack and leave. Dylan and I tuck dad back under the covers. Mum returns to the couch and turns on the TV. I know she won't sleep past this point.

"Go back to sleep babe," I tell my son. We head upstairs.

Back at my desk, staring at the open tabs. Another hour of my life split in two. The connection between fantasy and reality brutally severed this time though. Lift my eyes up to his face. "You think we ever gonna meet for real?" I send that thought to him knowing full well the futility.

More birds have joined my former solitary companion. Still an hour or so before dawn. Huh. It;s begun to rain again. Another miserable grey day ahead. It had been sunny and warm in Kansas damn it!

"Ping."