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move.
    “Please take me into the room,” Stan said evenly.
    The kid sighed. Stan knew he was rolling his eyes, trying to look like a big man in front of the doctor. Well, to hell with you, kid.
    Stan directed the driver to his regular spot, between the chairs that Harrison and Barbara always went to. He liked Barbara almost as much as he did Dr. Sayer. He was so happy the woman had sat beside him on the first day, and happier still that they’d stuck to their seats as if they’d been assigned. Dr. Sayer, thank God, had not inflicted any teambuilding exercise on them and forced them to shuffle their positions.
    Barbara arrived a few minutes later. Stan lowered his mask and said hello. She smelled like a proper woman; just a touch of expensive perfume, nothing cloying. He liked to breathe her in. Sometimes, if he shared something awful or sad, she’d pat his arm. Dr. Sayer, despite her obvious affection for him, never touched him.
    “How are you doing, Stan?” Barbara asked warmly.
    “Oh, can’t complain,” he said. He told her about his eye doctor, who wanted to do cataract surgery on him. His vision wasn’t as good as it used to be, but he wasn’t blind, not yet. “A dozen other things will kill me before I need to fix my eyes,” he said. Martin and Harrison came into the room. “I don’t need any more people coming at me with scalpels.”
    “I think they use lasers now,” Harrison said. He was dressed in a suit jacket and T-shirt, which Stan thought was a ridiculous combination. Make up your damn mind; either wear the whole suit with a man’s shirt and tie, or go play basketball.
    “Just another kind of knife,” Stan said.
    “Lightsaber,” Martin said.
    Greta took her seat next to Harrison. Stan had never gotten close enough to Greta to sniff her, but he wouldn’t be surprised if she wore men’s deodorant. She was almost certainly homeless, or a lesbian, or a homeless lesbian. Definitely didn’t like men. Every week she sat across the circle from him, glowering. Hardly ever spoke. What the hell was she doing here, if she wasn’t even going to talk? Also, he was pretty sure she wasn’t wearing a bra.
    “Who’d like to start?” Dr. Sayer asked.
    No one said anything. Dr. Sayer turned her eyes to Stan.
    He lifted his eyes from Greta’s chest. What was the doctor wanting? Oh right. “I want to talk about the glasses again,” Stan said.
    Martin looked up, wary.
    “No one’s asking you to take them off,” Barbara said to Martin. Then to Stan: “Are you, Stan?”
    “No.” But he thought, Not yet.
    “Good,” Martin said. “Because I’m not.”
    “I’m not telling you to,” Stan said.
    “Here’s what I want to know,” Harrison said. “If you’re not recording anything right now—”
    “I’m not,” Martin said.
    “Then why can’t you take them off, just for this meeting?”
    Stan was annoyed that Harrison had stolen his thunder. “Yeah,” Stan said. “Why?”
    Martin mumbled something.
    “What was that?” Stan asked.
    “I said , I can’t turn off the game.”
    Before anyone else could jump in, Stan asked the obvious question: “What the hell are you talking about?”
    “It’s called Deadtown ,” Martin said. “It’s an augmented reality RPG.”
    Stan said, “Augmented . . .”
    “It’s a video game,” Martin said. “But you play it in the real world. The game turns people on the street into zombies, and you actually see their faces transformed through the camera. The filters are wicked cool, completely dynamic.”
    Stan still had no idea what he was talking about. But it was certainly the most animated Martin had ever been in group.
    “You get points by killing the zombies,” Martin said. “You can pick up weapons that the game world drops for you, or buy them online. You just make your hand into a gun shape, and—” The fingers of his right hand curled. “There. A pistol.” He made another shape. “Or a knife. Or a sword.”
    “You walk around