"So you want me to provide you with physical evidence, which the nature of your belief disregards?"
    "Like I said, if you can think of something, I'd be happy to examine it."
    "But until then, we'll be stuck at this impasse. The world will continue to pass by, you'll be here for years in this locked delusion?" he asked gently.
    I made a sound almost like laughing.
    "Sasha, you can't stay here forever."
    "Good."
    "We're not a long-term facility, you'd end up having to get transferred somewhere else. Hopefully, after the course of three or four months we'll be able to get you out of here. But first you're going to have to overcome this... paranoid, psychotic hostility."
    "I thought you weren't supposed to use those terms with the patient."
    "Depends on the patient."
    "Not that I can really argue with you," I went on, to be fair.
    "Then you admit that you are suffering from these traits?"
    "It certainly looks that way, but then, I have no way of knowing." I smiled manicly.
    Another sigh. "We'll take this up again tomorrow, I'm afraid our time's up. Tom," he called to the waiting orderly, "could you...?"
    Reilly wheeled me out of the office. "How'd things go with the doc?" he asked.
    I stared straight ahead of me, every muscle aching with tension. "Just peachy. Could you bring me another book? I finished it."
    "Sure, what would you like?"
    "Pick something."
    "Okay, I can do that. I got today's newspaper if you're looking for something to read tonight."
    "Sure. That'd be great."
    Next stop: physical therapy. It hurt, but I didn't mind, since it gave me something else to think about. My arm didn't ache any more, or maybe I just didn't notice it. I still felt weak, and tired far more rapidly than I normally would have. Then a session in the whirlpool to soak away accumulated pains. A silver pseudopod rose up out of the center of the pool, about where the drain might be. I slammed my eyes shut. When I opened them, it was gone.
    On the way back to my room I said nothing, met no one's eyes as they settled me back into bed and hooked up the IV again. I kinked it more out of habit than anything else. Tom had left the paper as promised. I read every single line, including the personal ads. Iran-Contra, the Manhattan Project, an interview with Anthony Taurus which proved nothing at all. Nothing that correlated any of my memories, no mention of the Revolution. Of course, they could have printed this paper themselves, that morning....
    In the middle of the personals an ad read, "Needle, don't worry, we're on our way. Lucky." When I blinked, it was gone, replaced by Trent asking Sasha to please call him back. Then that, too, vanished. DWM looking for a woman who likes shiatsu massages and walks on the beach. I took a deep breath, folded the paper neatly and set it on the bedside table, curled up and stared at the wall until McKay came in and fixed the IV again with a quiet sigh. She glanced over at me as she did so and it was Lucky's face. I blinked, and it was again the close-but-not-quite features.
    "I understand from Tom that you weren't actually taking this last time," she remarked, holding up the cup of water. I swallowed the pill she gave me without argument. There was no point to trying. It had been days already. If anyone existed outside this place, they weren't going to find me, and I was probably insane anyway.
    She left, turned out the light. The drugs put me to sleep quickly.
    I woke up in darkness. It felt as if several hours had passed. The newspaper was still there, folded up. I could hear a faint hum, would not have been able to pick it up if not for the utter silence in the room. It was coming from the newspaper.
    The first thought that came to mind was that a bug had gotten trapped in the folds and was trying to get out. It didn't really sound like that, though. I poked the newspaper. Hum. I unfolded it. The rustling covered the hum for the moment, but then it came back. I left it alone, too numb to be interested in exploring.
    McKay came back into the room.
    "Oh, you're up. Go back to bed," she whispered, picked up the paper—she might have looked nervous. Then she was gone.
    What was that about? I couldn't even be sure if it had actually happened.
    "Why are you doing this to me?" I asked the ceiling, my voice trembling a little. Nothing answered.

[Perspective switch: Everyone Else]

    I woke up the next morning as Tom rolled in another tray.
    "Hi, how you feeling?"
    My knees curled to my chest, I said nothing.
    "Cereal day, lucky you," he sighed at my uncommunicativeness.
    "Yay." I stared at the bowl without really seeing it.
    "I grabbed a copy of The Sun Also Rises, I don't know whether you'll want that or not. We've been doing a lot of Fitzgerald so far. Thought that might be nice."
    "I hate Hemingway." I held out my hand for the book anyway. "The man had the style of a rhinoceros."
    "Can't be that bad." He promised to come back later and wheeled away.
    I wasn't hungry at all—real lack of appetite, not just that I was so tense the thought of food nearly made me ill. I opened chapter one and started reading, waiting for the words to start changing. They didn't.
    After a few minutes of that he came back in. "You have to eat something."
    I stared at him expressionlessly.
    "Don't force me to feed you, it's very...."
    "Demeaning?"
    He sighed. "I'd have to."
    "There's always the sucrose diet." That damn IV.
    "That's not giving you any real nourishment, certainly not giving you what you need. Come on, couple of bites," he encouraged. "It won't hurt you."

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