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on the tunnel wall. My eyes followed its direction, and outside in the tunnel I saw a small group of people squatting together and sobbing. The train slowed almost to a stop, as if it wanted me to see every detail of their torment. They were all in robes. One woman’s back was exposed, and I could count every rib through her gaunt flesh.
    And then I saw him, a dark figure standing over the group. I could not make out his face even though I pressed my cheek against the glass of the train window, straining to get a look at him. But I knew who he was. I had seen him darting in and out of dark places for years. He had appeared in my dreams, pulling me toward a dark psychic cesspool. The tall man in black. The devil. And now he was so close. He pointed down the tunnel as the train moved forward again, this time with the rhythmic clack of a roller coaster straining toward its highest point. He continued to point, and I continued to be carried away. Clack, clack, clack.
    Suddenly the train stopped, and I honestly thought it was preparing for a roller-coaster drop into hell. I looked around frantically and saw through the windows that an opening had appeared in the tunnel, and out of it rolled an old wooden wheelchair. Leather-strap restraints hung off the arms and swung wildly as it turned toward me. Its wheels squeaked as it rolled closer.
    It looked like a torture device, something used to imprison poor, crazy people. It terrified me. I stumbled back from the window and fell. The radio man gathered his meager belongings and knelt next to me.
    â€œWell, Jackie, this is my stop. This is where I belong,” he said. “You can’t run. There’s nowhere to hide. You are going to have to face this one.” He stood. “It’s been real nice seeing you, Jackie.”
    He turned and walked right through the door. Now I could see the bullet hole in the back of his head. The others followed him. I sat on the floor and watched soul after soul pass through the train door and walk into the tunnel. The radio man slowly turned and waved at me. “Don’t stray from the path or you won’t be able to come back. Stay on that line.”
    I dropped my head onto my knees and sobbed. Who could I turn to? Why couldn’t I be like other people? Why was I forced to have this existence? Why?
    The train stopped hard, jolting my body. I looked up to find myself in a normal, packed subway car, full of New Yorkers going about their business. Everyone in their own worlds. If they only knew about mine.
    * * *
    I had no conception of how much time had passed. I did not remember I had an appointment. I did not know where I was going once I got off the R train. My feet just carried me, block after block.
    Standing at an intersection, I saw a woman waving wildly at me from across the street, yelling at me to cross even though traffic flew by. She waved and yelled, but no one else saw her. This was the woman who had been watching me for so long now. Patricia. The one who had been waiting.
    The light changed, and I ran across the street to her, though she also ran, toward a huge stone building. I stopped and stared. The old Bellevue insane asylum, now a homeless shelter. Dead, twisted vines crawled up the stone and broken brick, as though massive tree roots stretched upward to cover the entire building. I saw Patricia disappear inside, and I could not follow. I knew I should, I knew I needed to see where she was leading me, but I couldn’t do it. I stood on the sidewalk, at war with myself, feeling like one of the schizophrenics who used to call this horrific building home.
    I stared up at the fortress and saw the torn curtains in one window swing open and that same old wooden wheelchair roll into view. And I saw myself strapped into it. The tall man in black I had seen in the tunnel was pushing me.
    â€œWe’re waiting for you, Jackie,” he bellowed. His face was covered with a mask that completely covered