I found myself reading The Fellowship of the Ring. A peculiar, maybe even bizarre experience. I remember reading it a long time ago. One of the things I guess I need to do is start figuring out how much of what I think I know, I actually know; it's kind of worrisome to think that they might have planted a certainty that I had done something, without actually including the experiential part. Though I suppose they wouldn't do it with anything they considered important. I really do know how to drive a car, after all. It turned out that as I read the book, I "remembered" it; everything about it seemed very familiar. But I had no idea what was going to happen next at any point. It was almost indescribably frustrating, so I finished it rather quickly.
    That wasn't the weird thing, though. That happened when I was on my way back from dinner on the mainland, heading back up toward the Castleview's friendly porch lights.
    "Miss?" someone called from behind me.
    "Yes?" It was the artist. "Oh. Hello."
    "I'm sorry, I was rude, and that was uncalled for," he apologized, apparently in reference to this morning.
    "I beg your pardon? I disturbed you at your work." If anyone should be apologizing, I figured it was me.
    "No, you... surprised me, and I responded poorly." He handed me a folded piece of paper.
    "Really, it's nothing," I told him with a quizzical smile.
    "No, it's.... I know this may not make sense, but I'm trying to get over something," he explained hesitantly.
    "Quite all right," I assured him rather dryly.
    "I'm sorry. I hope you like that." He indicated the paper.
    "Thank you." I was at something of a loss.
    "I'll... maybe see you later, have a nice night." He retreated quickly.
    "You, too." Frowning in puzzlement, I unfolded it. It was me, on the headland, the two windjammers almost out of sight behind me, hair somewhat windblown and my expression distant. He had had, at most, thirty or forty-five seconds between when I turned around and when he had started packing up, before I reached him. I touched it curiously near an edge; it smudged slightly despite the fixative. Pencil, however much it looked like it should be a black and white photograph.
    When I went inside I ran into the B&B's co-owner in the front hall; we made a few moments' conversation and I assured him I was enjoying my stay. Apple pancakes for breakfast tomorrow.
    The drawing was very... disconcerting. Still is; I'm not sure what to make of it, though I've tucked it into my backpack along with the few souvenirs I've collected on my little trip so far.
    It's signed. Marshall Murphy.

    3:07 a.m.
    Absolute helplessness. An implacable, inevitable weight prepared to crush me. When I wake up I'm afraid to try to move because I might find out that I can't. Afraid to open my eyes.
    After that, the anger. That they can do this to me, that I can't make it stop. No control.
    Guess I'll go downstairs and find the second book.

May 25, 1987

I did eventually go back to bed a little after four, but I was up again at 6:30—excess energy rather than a restless subconscious, this time. A month here and I could probably kick my coffee habit. I went for my usual morning walk and saw the kids boarding the early ferry for school.
    I'd never paid them much attention before, but today I noticed that yesterday's artist was among the group of presumed parents seeing off the youngsters. Mr. Murphy appears to be of Irish background; the kid is black. Adopted, maybe, or child of a previous marriage; I'm no one to make assumptions or judgements, though I was a bit startled, since I had unconsciously assumed Murphy to be a guest rather than a resident. That remark about trying to get over something, I guess.
    The kid got on last, obviously reluctant. He didn't really seem to walk, either, so much as glide onto the ferry. The other kids had all bunched into little groups that excluded him; as the ferry pulled away he was left staring over the side, alone. The sight dredged up unhappy memories, which as usual brought a whole other mess of other issues along with it.
    I closed my eyes and very deliberately tried to make my mind a blank. There is no reason to go around being depressed about stuff that never happened, I reminded myself, and resumed walking. It's silly. There's even less reason to go around being depressed about the fact that it didn't happen. It's not as if it's going to make any difference anyway.
    So. The mysterious Mr. Murphy and his presumed son are not, either one of them, strictly human. I wasn't all that surprised, after yesterday, though the kid seemed too young. Variance usually emerges during or just after puberty (I'm a special case, obviously).
    I passed the pier as Marshall was walking up it. He nodded. "Morning."
    "Morning," I replied. We seemed to be headed in the same direction. After a moment it occurred to me that I was being rude. "Thank you for the picture."
    "Oh. You liked it?"
    "It's very good," I told him sincerely. He shook his head in a dissatisfied way. I shrugged. "Well, I was pretty impressed."
    "Why?" he asked, more intensely than I would have expected.
    "It was very... real, I guess." I'm not exactly an expert when it comes to art.
    He was silent a for a moment, then said, "Thank you," in a quiet, distracted voice, as if he was thinking something entirely different.
    I appeared to have said something wrong. "Sorry." Social skills were not high on Zed's agenda, evidently.
    "No, no," he assured me, then paused. "It.... Can I ask you something?"
    "Sure."
    "Where are you from?"
    "Boston."
    "D'you have a... yeah, you do, I read it in the papers...." He looked distracted.
    "Excuse me?"
     I had abruptly lost the thread of the conversation. It occurred to me that this was the most I'd talked with anyone since I'd gotten here

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