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rake with me to defend myself? I need
 something smaller.
I go back to the tool closet where I got the hammer and
 have another look around. At first I think I see a gun, but
 then I realize it’s a nailer. It’s about two feet long—the kind
 you use to fire nails into concrete with a shotgun shell. I
 have no idea how I know what it is and how it works, but
I do. I put it in the inside pocket of the huge overcoat,
 holding the handle of it with my armpit. I take a handful
 each of shells and nails and put them in the pocket, too.
45
    Improvising seems familiar. Like it’s my style.
I notice an interior door in the corner of the garage.
There’s probably a hallway on the other side. It might lead
 toward a basement, but I can’t chance it. Since this place
 is built into the side of a hill, I can’t be sure what level the
 garage connects to, and I don’t want to end up anywhere
 near the lobby. Run? Don’t run? I do nothing. I can’t do
 nothing. I hear footsteps on the other side of the door.
Heavy and urgent. These guys are fast.
I can hear them shouting to each other in their weird,
 digitized voices. I run to the other side of the garage where
 the big lawn mowers are parked and squat down behind
 one of them.
I hear the chirp of a magnetized card reader and see the
 light near the door turn from red to green. The door opens
 an inch.
I wait. They wait. They’re testing me.
“Sarah Ramos. Walk to the center of the room and
 lie face down on the floor with your arms and legs fully
 extended.”
I say nothing. Still the door doesn’t open. What are they
 waiting for?
I jump up from behind the mower and pull the engine
 cord. It springs to life, coughing black smoke and shak-
 ing the room. I squeeze one handle, but nothing happens.
Then I try both at the same time and the lawn mower
 jumps forward, but as soon as I let go of both handles, it
 stalls.
46
    Behind me on a workbench is a roll of duct tape. I tear
 a piece off with my teeth and wrap it around each handle
 of the mower.
Just as the door springs open, I pop the brake and the
 mower takes off toward the door. I don’t care how many
 guns you have—when a huge lawn mower is coming at
 you, you get out of the way. They reflexively shoot and
 then retreat back to the hallway as it smashes into the door.
The screeching of metal echoes through the garage.
I hit the button to lower the garage door, waiting until
 it’s almost all the way down before slipping out underneath
 it.
I’m alive. But I need to keep moving if I want to stay
 that way.
Keeping close to the building, I hope the outcroppings
 and contours will provide me some cover. After a hundred
 feet or so, I come to the edge of my known world: a huge
 metal trellis mounted to the side of the building. It runs
 almost all the way to the roof and has thousands of pieces of
 copper foil attached to the lattice. When the wind blows,
 the foil strips spin around, making patterns in the shift-
 ing breezes. Pretty, yes, but it’s also capturing the wind’s
 energy to help supply power to the building. Somebody
 once told me it’s called “functional sculpture.”
As I try to decide what my next move should be, I see a
figure ahead of me in the snow. It isn’t one of the guys with
 guns. It isn’t someone on staff. Another patient? It can’t be.
For one thing, he isn’t bald. I can see dark hair sticking out
47
    from underneath his ski hat. Also, he’s wearing a big white
 puffy ski jacket and goggles, and carrying what looks like
 a computer bag. As he skulks along, I skulk behind him.
Something in the way he moves tells me he’s young. I fol-
 low as he picks his way around the edge of the building.
In his left hand, he’s carrying a walkie-talkie, and when
 he disappears around the next corner, I run faster to gain
 ground.
I chance a look around the corner and stop in my tracks.
There’s