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they’re just going to drug me until I stop telling them I see things.”
    “You can look at it that way if you want,” says Vanek, holding up his hands. “What you think about it doesn’t really matter, does it? Your brain’s broken.”
    “Are you the worst therapist ever?”
    Vanek frowns. “I’m not your mother,” he says.
    “No one is.”
    “Tragic but irrelevant. You’re twenty years old, Michael, and I’m not here to coddle you. I’m here to smile at the staff and sign some papers and check you into Powell.”
    “You’re coming with me?”
    “Not to stay. They have their own doctors.”
    “But I’m your patient, right? You’re my personal therapist.”
    “I’m a therapist you haven’t visited in six months; I’ve had my shot and failed. If you want to get better, you need to pay better attention to Dr. Little than you did to me.” He stands up. “I’ll go tell them you’re ready.” He steps toward the door, and it feels like part of me—my life, my freedom—is being ripped away. I can’t let them lock me up in a psych hospital; I have to think of something.
    “Wait!” I shout. He stops and turns to look at me. “Tell them … tell them I can’t leave yet! That there’s something wrong.” I rack my brain. “The memory loss! Go with that; my memory’s been screwed up and you think I should stay in a regular medical hospital until they figure out why.”
    “Two minutes ago you were begging to get out of here, and now you want to stay?”
    “It’s better than a psych hospital.”
    “There’s nothing I can do.”
    “Does schizophrenia explain the memory loss?”
    “No…”
    “Then tell them I can’t leave until we find something that does. Maybe I got brain damage in the fall.”
    “They’ve gone over the MRI scans a hundred times, Michael, there’s no sign of trauma—”
    My pulse thunders into overdrive, and I feel my head going light. “I had an MRI?” My voice is louder than I expect; almost a screech.
    Vanek’s eyes widen at my outburst. “You fell,” he says, keeping his voice calm. “An MRI is the best way to test for cranial and spinal injuries—”
    “An MRI is like a—” I don’t even know how to talk; my heart’s pounding in terror, my head’s going cold and light. “They’re trying to control me through electronic devices, and you shove me inside the biggest device you can find? An MRI is designed to bombard your body with an electric field; that’s what it’s for. Who knows what they did to me while I was in there!”
    “An MRI is completely harmless, Michael.”
    “Why can you not understand this! They could have read my mind, or put something in it, or—or just cut chunks of it right out! That’s why I can’t remember anything! That’s why I’m going crazy!” Dr. Vanek opens the door and walks into the hall, calling for Dr. Sardinha, and I shout after him desperately. “You’ve got to get me into surgery, right now! Find whatever they put in my head and cut it out! That’s why I have a false reality—I can only think what they want me to think!”
    Dr. Vanek doesn’t come back. About thirty minutes later Frank and another orderly prop open my door and start wheeling me out.
    “Listen, Frank,” I say, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do it, so no hard feelings, right?” He ignores me. “Frank, you’ve gotta help me, you’ve gotta get me out of here—don’t let me go to Powell, don’t … just take me somewhere else, just wheel me into a closet and untie me and you’ll never see me again, I promise.”
    Nothing.
    “Come on Frank, no hard feelings, right? You can bite me back if you want, if it makes you feel better, or you can punch me in the face or whatever you want to do—I’m serious, man, just help me out here. Help me—” We push through the outer door, and they wheel me toward an ambulance.
    I’m crying now. “Come on Frank, we’re friends; you know I didn’t mean to bite you, I was just scared is