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SCENE: A hospital room.

THE CD SINGLE, quinquagenarian and pale, sits on a bed, attached to a bewildering array of chattering and beeping monitors: pulse, temperature, accounts receivable. The old boy may be barely breathing. He appears to be watching VH1.

A MUSIC EXECUTIVE knocks tentatively at the not-quite-closed door, and enters, followed closely by a rambunctious CHILD, who is thumbing madly away at a small cellphone.

EXECUTIVE: Heyyyy. How ya doin’, pal. They feedin’ you OK?

SINGLE: [Switching off “I Love the 80s†as he rolls slowly to face the newcomers.] Hi. No, not really. Actually, they—

EXECUTIVE: Great, great, glad to hear it. Listen, I brought someone who I really think can cheer you up.

SINGLE: Oh? [Coughing slightly, he sits up.] Is it…is it the pee-to-pee people? [Indicating the flowers across the room.] It’s so nice when they come by, they make me feel—

EXECUTIVE: [Explosively.] What? NO! You KNOW how I feel—uh, ahem. What I mean to say is, I’ve brought someone who can cheer both of us up.

SINGLE: Uh, OK…

EXECUTIVE: It’s my friend here, Ringtone!

The EXECUTIVE grabs the CHILD a little too roughly by the shoulder and thrusts him toward the bed. RINGTONE nearly looks up.

RINGTONE: ’Sup.

SINGLE: [Eyeing RINGTONE quizzically, then softening.] Hi there, little guy. What’s your name?

RINGTONE: Ring.

EXECUTIVE: [Eagerly.] Eh, Single, whaddya think? He looks just like you!

SINGLE: Except shorter.

EXECUTIVE: Yeah, great! You guys are gonna get along perfectly. From now on, you’ll be hanging out together, everywhere you go: malls, big-box stores, Starb—

RINGTONE: [Screwing up his face, eyes still locked on his text message.] Lame.

SINGLE: I don’t really see the point.

EXECUTIVE: [Darkening.] What? Why not? What’s not to get? He’s hot right now. He’ll prop you right up. You can be cool again.

SINGLE: He’s not hot, he’s convenient. People can just, you know, tap-tap-tap with their thumbs or whatever, and they’ve got him. You put him in a box with me, now people have to, what, download us to their phones or something?

EXECUTIVE: Sure. It’s easy. You hook up your data cable to the blue teeth on your dongle and it’s all, click, click, sync. Presto. It’s so easy even iTunes can do it. [He shudders slightly at the mention.]

SINGLE: I don’t think it’s quite that sim—

EXECUTIVE: Look. I honestly don’t care what you think. Nobody cares what you think. You are dying. DY–ING. Nobody wants you, nobody cares.

SINGLE: But the pee-to—

EXECUTIVE: Those—those “peopleâ€â€”are morons. Morons and thieves. And we tried to cut their thieving hands off, but then everybody got all upset, “boo hoo rootkits,†blah blah BLAH. I still don’t really understand what happened there. But we’ve got to try something else, and I’m thinking, if they won’t pay money for you, they’ll pay money for him, and I can start moving some friggin’ product again.

SINGLE: Won’t they just be able to get him for free too?

RINGTONE: [Looking up suddenly.] Free?

EXECUTIVE: Oh, hell.

SINGLE: That’s right, kid. They’re out there, people who really love you, not just because you’re easy, but because they like your sound. And they’ll share you with their friends.

EXECUTIVE: I AM NOT HEARING THIS!

RINGTONE: Sweet.

Turning on the spot, RINGTONE exits briskly. Several beats, filled only with the silent sneer of the EXECUTIVE, pass.

EXECUTIVE: You are a damned fool.

SINGLE: Yeah, OK. [He turns the TV back on.]