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downtown Boston, and after half an hour Dr. Hooper can see me. I sit on a gurney in an examining room, behind a yellow curtain. Jutting out of the wall at waist height is a horizontal flatscreen, adjusted for tunnel vision so it appears blank from my angle. The doctor types at the keyboard, presumably calling up my file, and then starts examining me. As he's checking my pupils with a penlight, I tell him about my nightmares.
    "Did you ever have any before the accident, Leon?” He gets out his little mallet and taps at my elbows, knees, and ankles.
    "Never. Are these a side effect of the drug?"
    "Not a side effect. The hormone K therapy regenerated a lot of damaged neurons, and that's an enormous change that your brain has to adjust to. The nightmares are probably just a sign of that."
    "Is this permanent?"
    "It's unlikely,” he says. “Once your brain gets used to having all those pathways again, you'll be fine. Now touch your index finger to the tip of your nose, and then bring it to my finger here."
    I do what he tells me. Next he has me tap each finger to my thumb, quickly. Then I have to walk a straight line, as if I'm taking a sobriety test. After that, he starts quizzing me.
    "Name the parts of an ordinary shoe."
    "There's the sole, the heel, the laces. Um, the holes that the laces go through are eyes, and then there's the tongue, underneath the laces..."
    "Okay. Repeat this number: three nine one seven four—"
    "—six two."
    Dr. Hooper wasn't expecting that. “What?"
    "Three nine one seven four six two. You used that number the first time you examined me, when I was still an inpatient. I guess it's a number you test patients with a lot."
    "You weren't supposed to memorize it; it's meant to be a test of immediate recall."
    "I didn't intentionally memorize it. I just happened to remember it."
    "Do you remember the number from the second time I examined you?"
    I pause for a moment. “Four zero eight one five nine two."
    He's surprised. “Most people can't retain so many digits if they've only heard them once. Do you use mnemonic tricks?"
    I shake my head. “No. I always keep phone numbers in the autodialer."
    He goes to the terminal and taps at the numeric keypad. “Try this one.” He reads a fourteen-digit number, and I repeat it back to him. “You think you can do it backwards?” I recite the digits in reverse order. He frowns, and starts typing something into my file.
    * * * *
    I'm sitting in front of a terminal in one of the testing rooms in the psychiatric ward; it's the nearest place Dr. Hooper could get some intelligence tests. There's a small mirror set in one wall, probably with a video camera behind it. In case it's recording, I smile at it and wave briefly. I always do that to the hidden cameras in automatic cash machines.
    Dr. Hooper comes in with a printout of my test results. “Well, Leon, you did ... very well. On both tests you scored in the ninety-ninth percentile."
    My jaw drops. “You're kidding."
    "No, I'm not.” He has trouble believing it himself. “Now that number doesn't indicate how many questions you got right; it means that relative to the general population—"
    "I know what it means,” I say absently. “I was in the seventieth percentile when they tested us in high school.” Ninety-ninth percentile. Inwardly, I'm trying to find some sign of this. What should it feel like?
    He sits down on the table, still looking at the printout. “You never attended college, did you?"
    I return my attention to him. “I did, but I left before graduating. My ideas of education didn't mesh with the professors'."
    "I see.” He probably takes this to mean I flunked out. “Well, clearly you've improved tremendously. A little of that may have come about naturally as you grew older, but most of it must be a result of the hormone K therapy."
    "This is one hell of a side effect."
    "Well, don't get too excited. Test scores don't predict how well you can do things in the real world.” I roll my