"Well, well, Marlie, you look like you're quite trussed up here. They told me you've been behaving like a rascal."

Marla opened her eyes. She was lying on her back on her gurney in her little cave, her arms fastened tightly to her sides by cloth restraining straps attached to the seams of her body wrap. A hulk stood out of focus in the doorway just this side of the damask curtain.

"Where's Charney?" she whispered.

"What do you need him for?" asked the hulk. It stepped into the room and stood over her bed.

"Charney ..." she struggled to sit up, but the straps held her down, restraining her like a victim of Scab Pullers Disease that had to be protected from herself.

"Don't try to move, dear. They've got you pinned down."

The hulk eased into focus. A shock of slicked down hair and slumping shoulders materialized before her. Slowly Marla realized that as bad as it was being imprisoned in this hospital, as bad as it was being tyrannized by an accountant with a minor in psychiatry, as bad as it was lying bandaged from head to toe and strapped onto a bed, the worst was having Grant Parker visit her, exacerbating all the bads. And how did he know Charney was a he?

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Well, I'm just visiting my new employee," Parker said. He wore an ill-fitting navy suit with a polyester tie. Cheap bastard didn't even bother buying the company product.

"Just shut up." She closed her eyes, letting his answer sink in and discovering that as bad as everything was, they just kept getting badder by the minute. "I don't even want to know how that happened."

"Oh. Well, I'll tell you. Lamont moved up and over to Fustia, Torpid moved up to Lamont's spot, and they moved me up to Torpid's."

"Great. Can you please roll me over so I can pretend that you're not here."

"You're so funny, I'm gonna love working with you."

"How's Saddle?"

"Oh, she's great. They, uh, offered her your position."

"Good Gad!" She struggled to sit up again. "Saddle'll last ten minutes." Losing her battle against the restraint, she relaxed back down. "Does that mean I'm back on a loom? I hope so."

"Of course not. You've got my old spot. It's not a promotion, more like a lateral move. Sort of a gravy assignment, though, since I got my group in such great order. It'll be much easier than at Anthusia."

"Especially since we lost ten Anthusian weavers, eh?" Marla exaggerated a smile. She knew the score.

"Oh no, no. Everything's back to normal. Everybody has a full set of weavers and a parent. Daddy Jack is great to work with, you'll love him."

"I'm sure I will. Look, Parker, I'm really, really tired. Could you see if Charney will come in to feed me something—milkshake, tomato puree, baby food—anything that will work with a straw? I'm quite sure I'll be, uh, bandaged here for a while considering I perpetrated violence on the doc. To be honest I'm surprised BAC is taking me back at all after what I did. Twice now. And I'm imagining I've got months of tub dates in front of me. It's all making me very tired. So if you'll just go find the chap named Charney and buzz off."

"On the contrary, Dear." The damask room curtain flung aside and Doc Ivovna herself entered like a diva at Sardi's after a big opening night. She was smiling and, despite a rubber brace contraption on her wrist, seemed to be in a sunny mood. She practically swooped like a swan en pointe into the room and over to Marla's bedside. "You're to be released tomorrow."

"Hi, Doc," Parker said, moving over to give space to the arabesquing accountant/doctor.

Doc ignored him, keeping her eyes on Marla who was silent and trying to digest the situation.

Ignoring the insanity of strapping a person down for their violent behavior one moment and then releasing them the next, she looked from Doc to Parker and said, "Can you believe it, Doc? Now I don't want to go."

"That is to be expected," Doc bubbled with sickening enthusiasm as if everything was going according to plan. Even if Marla confessed fantasies of serial murdering half of Harper's Mills' children, Doc wouldn't be disappointed in the least. "That happens in cases of violent breakthrough," she said. "That's exactly why you must go. HA is going to set in now that you've had your episode."

"HA?"

"Hospitular Addiction." Parker and Doc said it at the same time. Doc turned and glared at Parker. He slunk back to a chair by the wall.

"I don't understand how I can be released after having done violence, which, yes, I'm sorry for, but I did nonetheless. I really am not ready to go back to work."

"Not to worry," Doc answered. "You'll have a couple of days off. Let me explain your situation this way. Because the original incident occurred when you were in the throes of your—'revolution' shall we call it?—you needed to be in an angry, defiant mood in order to set off a breakthrough and crack your memory open. I knew once you hit it, you'd be all right."

"Then why am I in this shroud here?"

"Well, we're never, uh, quite sure how long the attitude will last. You might have, you know, woken up angry still and exhibiting more, uh, misbehavior. But once we saw you were back to normal—I was listening in just now, I hope you don't mind—I signed your release. You'll be leaving tomorrow."

"Uh huh. " Marla paused, considering. She really didn't want to go now. "And, uh, I still have that face haunting me. I dreamt it again."

"Face?"

"Yeah, the man's face, or hair, or whatever it is. No clue. I don't know who it is. What about that?"

"I'm sure it's nobody. Or rather, a composite of any number of people. In cases of retrograde amnesia like yours, people and events can sometimes glom together, even after memory retrieval. Look, Grant has black hair, maybe it was him."

"Can't be. I mentioned the man has a spine, right?"

"A composite, then. Think no more of it."

"Are you just making this up as you go along?"

"Of course not, I am degreed..."

" 'In psychountery', yes, I know. Listen, I'm not ready. I'm quite sure you know this, but you do what you want. Somebody's making decisions, maybe you, I don't know. This whole tyranny, er uh, treatment, here is way beyond me, and I'm tired of thinking about it. I just want to be left alone. Can you get Charney to come in here and unwrap me? I'm sweating like a dog."

"Dogs don't sweat," Parker interjected.

"I'm sweating like a dog and starting to shrink and the razor stubble in my armpits stings."

"Um," Doc said. "Charney, uh, left. He's in a new position now. I'll send in another intern."

"Charney left?" Marla again struggled in her wraps, attempting to get up to a listening position. "We had such big plans. Why just yesterday we scheduled a game of dirty harry, or hearts, or something. That's a drag. A real drag." Marla looked over at Parker as if he personally talked Charney into leaving. "Sounds like everybody's doing a lot of moving around lately. Why did he leave?"

"New position," both Doc and Parker said it at the same time. Doc turned to Parker. Marla guessed she was glaring again at the silly Parker, giving away secrets that Marla wasn't supposed to know about.

Doc turned back to Marla, huge smile on her face. "Playing cards, how wonderful. You sound like you're doing fine."

"I am, and thanks, Doc. You've really been great. And Grant. What good news for me, eh? I guess I'll see you on, well, I can't say what day I'll see you on, because I have no clue, now do I?"

"You'll see me on Monday, Marla." Parker patted her on the shoulder and turned to leave the room.

"I'll be in tomorrow to discharge you, dear," Doc said, joining Parker to exit the room. Together they turned back at the damask curtain to wave goodbye. Both were smiling broadly. Marla wouldn't have been surprised if they were surreptitiously holding each other's hands out of her view.

Marla returned the big, fat smiles with one of her own. And it wasn't just for their benefit. In spite of the obvious dismal state of her life—a job she hated, a new boss she hated worse, a new work group she was unfamiliar with, and no promise of a change in BAC's plantation business practices on the horizon—she was happy. Doc's treatment abilities fell somewhat short of those of a barber, true, but there was no doubt Marla had her full memory back. And with that return came her old attitude—her anger and her determination. There was no way in hell she was going back to the Mill or any other corner they assigned her to. But they didn't need to know that.

A new intern came in wearing the same gray outfit Charney would have worn. She had longish, curly hair, though, where Charney was slightly balding.

"Ma'am, I'm going to cut you out of your bandages, if you don't mind."

"Me mind? Why no. I'm a lamb and totally complacent. Do with me what you will."

"Yup. That's what your chart says. 'Complacent.' "

"Does it now? And just yesterday I was flinging my doctor around the room. What is in the water, I wonder, to effect such a change in me? Say, what else is on my chart?"

"That you need to get out of your wraps because you're sweating like a dog, starting to shrink, and your armpits are stinging."

"Uh huh. So Doc's not the only one utilizing the audio monitor in this room, eh?"

"Of course not. How else can we watch our patients? We can't be in all the rooms all the time now, can we?"

"Of course not. So tell me, is Doc very, uh, conscientious in her work? Does she pay a lot of attention to her patients?"

"Oh yes. She's been monitoring you since you came here."

"I'll bet she has. She's very professional."

"I guess. She's not on staff here, so I don't know her very well. You're the only case she has here, in fact. But she seems very, what did you call it?"

"Conscientious, thorough, caring, observant, on the job, creepy."

"Uh..."

"Listen, that guy that was here before you. Charney? I wanted to thank him for his help before I leave tomorrow. Do you know where he transferred to?"

"Charney, the guy that got sacked?"

"No, he moved. Transferred."

"No, no. He got sacked; he was discussing payment plans with some patient. He wasn't supposed to do that."

"Huh. That sounds like Charney. He's got such a big mouth. I liked the kid, but he was a pain in the ass sometimes. I suppose he deserved it. Still, I'd like to send him a thank you buzz. Maybe I can get his address of exchange from somebody. Who should I ask, do you suppose?"

"Oh, I have no idea. Ask at the desk when you check out tomorrow why don't you?"

"Yeah, that's a good idea. Thanks. Thanks a lot, uh, what's your name?"

"Tami," she answered, cutting through the last bandage on Marla's leg. "There, if you could just sit up now, I can pull them out from underneath you."

"Tami, of course." Marla sat up creakily, her muscles sore from being restrained for probably close to 18 hours. She had wrinkles in her skin, impressions from the seams of her hospital garb stamped in from the bandages. She had not, contrary to the latest scientific theory, shrunk. "Thanks, Tami."

"Do you need something to eat?"

"Sure, whatever's for dinner is fine."

"Wow, your chart was right, you're a lamb."

"Yeah, a lamb." Marla smiled as Tami tossed the pile of gray wraps down the cinerchute and then left through the curtains, leaving Marla alone in the room to stare at the wall and take in the day's events. Regardless of what dismal picture of her new life Parker painted, one thing was for sure: she was getting out of this torture dump. "Lamb to the slaughter," she muttered out of earshot of the audio monitor.

Dinner was uneventful. Afterwards she slept peacefully through the night.

#

At eight-thirty the next morning Doc bounced into the room in the same whirl of enthusiasm she'd had the day before, as if she was fresh into residency and Marla was her first success. She brought in a pile of white liners—the discharge clothing every patient everywhere wears like a badge of honor when he or she is expected to go out and face the world. Tradition demanded the wearer not remove them before sundown.

After donning the drawstring pants, U-neck shirt and canvas boat shoes, Marla was so impressed with her new look, she considered not changing out of them for at least an hour.

"Who's your tailor?" she asked.

"Don't be cynical, Dear," Doc grunted. "It's hospital issue, just be glad it's not gray. Are you ready? I'd like to get you out of here."

"Wow, Doc. When you decide someone is cured, you're behind schedule already."

"Well, it's just that you've been in here a long time. The sooner you get out, the better you'll feel."

"And the sooner I'll get back to work."

Doc spun around. "What's that?" she said.

"It's just that I'm already good," Marla answered.

"So now you want to stay?"

"No, not really. Just can't imagine myself feeling better than what I already do. You said, 'the sooner you get out, the better you'll feel.' "

"Oh." Doc's lips went up into smile position but her cheeks remained tense. She took Marla by the elbow and led her through the damask curtain into the hallway where gurneys whizzed and bots sped on their way to extract promises from dazed patients not to sue the hospital.

The two walked uneasily through the traffic and directly to the nurses' station at the end of the hall. Doc marched up to the window and exclaimed "exiting patient" through the holes in the lead glass. Immediately the side door opened and they were admitted inside the office where Marla had previously not been authorized to go.

"So that's how you do it, " she said.

"Do what?" Doc said, ushering Marla through the door.

"Nothing, nothing. Just remembering a temper tantrum I had," Marla said.

They sat down in two green cardboard upholstered straight-backs lined up along the wall inside the little reception area of the office. The nurse brought out a clipboard and an unabridged dictionary-sized pad of exit forms for Marla to "read" and sign. Form after form was placed in front of her with yellow translucent stickies in the shape of arrows and the words "sign here," pointing to the appropriate line. She used a memory pen so that after the first one, all she had to do was click the pen to the page and it signed for her.

Finally, after an hour or so, she was given a card with instructions to follow in case she felt faint, nauseous, diahhreic, phlegmatic, wheezy, light-headed, flatulent, or green. On the back, in small, faint letters, it stated: "In case of litigation as per Form 39A-/L, which you have previously signed, you must contact our arbitration unit at Juncoe 9000. Remember: Lawsuits are illegal."

Marla neither read the box, nor listened to the nurse reciting the instructions with the same speed and histrionic emotion of a stewardess giving the ritual life-saving instructions before the plane takes off. The nurse had obviously done this before, two, three thousand times.

"Thanks," Marla said. "I understand."

"Good, sign here. It says you understand everything you've signed. Then Doctor, uh..."

"Ivovna," Doc said.

"Doctor Ivovna must sign that the patient is of sound mind and body."

"Fine," Doc and Marla said it together.

"Good," the nurse said.

"Fine," Doc and Marla said together.

The nurse glared. "Do you need anything else?"

"Well..."

"No, she's all set, " Doc interrupted, and then turned to Marla, hastily adding, "I mean, well, aren't you?"

"Um, actually no." Marla startled the other two by impudently putting a stick in the spokes of the checkout process. She looked from the nurse to Doc, both glared at her. "I mean, I ... wanted to say, uh, goodbye to Charney. I feel I should give him a gift or something. He did a bangup job."

"No tipping is allowed, Ma'am," the nurse said.

"Oh, okay, well, I'll just say goodbye then."

"Goodbye," the nurse and Doc said it together.

"To Charney," Marla said. "I just need to know what hallway he's on and I'll pop in real quick. Just take a minute. It's a little unfeeling if I don't." She scrinched her lips and nose together in the "You know what I mean" face that people use to imply the listener knows exactly what the speaker knows, and that they both know the unspoken social rules and how painful it is when those rules are broken.

"Uh, well!" The nurse looked at Doc. "He's, uh, let me look it up. I can, uh, call, maybe. Yes, I'll call."

She pushed a button on the wall next to the speaker unit of a recessed yakker.

Presently a voice answered. "Admin."

Marla's eyes widened. "So they do exist."

"What?" Doc asked. Marla just shook her head, indicating it was a private joke between herself and herself.

"Pearl," the nurse spoke into the wall unit. "This is Tump on five. Our patient..." she shuffled through the papers in her hands until finding one with the answer. "Marla Gershe, is here in the office. She's just leaving today and would like to say goodbye to an intern. Charney Gowither. Do you know what hallway he's on? This is Doctor Ivovna's patient."

"The one with the, uh..."

"Yeah, that's the one."

"Uh huh. Well, uh, Charney Gowither, let me see."

A clicking of a computer terminal could be heard through the yakker. Somewhere in the distant reaches of Pearl's office, a group of people laughed at a comment unheard by those in Tump's, leaving each one there to separately assume the joke was on her. Finally Pearl expelled a breath into the speaker of her yakker which translated on the other end as a burst of crackly white noise, letting everyone in Tump's office know she'd returned to the line.

"Yes, uh, apparently Charney Gowither is no longer with us."

"He died?" Marla asked.

"He died?" the nurse asked into the yakker.

"No, he quit."

"Can I get a forwarding address?" Marla called over to the line, trying to bypass Tump who was about to say, "Okay, goodbye."

"Who's that?" Pearl asked.

"Marla Gershe. The one with the, uh..." Marla answered, moving over to Tump's side and easing her out of in front of the yakker's speaker holes. "I'd like to send him a note thanking him for his great service. I had hoped to say goodbye, but I'll just send him a card."

"I'm sorry, we can't give you his address, but if you fill out a complimentary card available for just that service, we'll forward it to him."

"Oh, well, that would be wonderful," Marla answered weakly. She turned to Doc. "These people are great, aren't they?"

"Uh," Doc said.

Marla turned to the frowning Nurse Tump. Everyone stood in silence for a few moments waiting for something to happen. Finally, Marla said, "Nurse Tump?"

Nurse Tump raised her eyebrows and nodded knowingly, finally understanding that everyone was waiting for her. She reached over and pushed a second button on the wall near the yakker unit. A slot in the wall next to the button emitted a small, white card which Tump handed to Marla.

Marla grabbed it and nodded a thanks to Tump. She retrieved the memory pen from the top of the clipboard, shook it down to erase her signature, and wrote on the card, "Charney, sorry I couldn't say goodbye. You did an excellent job. I'm glad to hear you're moving up with your career. Give me a yak sometime: 7BA-QX....MG. Hugs, Marla Gershe, patient 9301."

She looked up at Tump. "Is there an envelope? It's private."

"We'll wrap it for you," Tump answered, grabbing it out of Marla's hand. She turned it over, read it immediately, and looked up at Marla, daring her to be indignant. "Goodbye, Ms. Gershe. Wonderful having you here. Be good."

For a few seconds Marla stood blinking at Tump and then jumped to answer. "Thanks for your, uh, respectful care; I had a great time."

"You're so very welcome," Nurse Tump smiled graciously, proud of the respectful care she'd personally provided.

Marla looked at Doc whose face was a blank, then she returned to Tump and held her hand out for a parting shake. Tump eyed the hand for a few seconds before taking it and limply holding it a moment in her own cold yet sweaty palm. When she let go, she reached up to Marla's shoulder and led her to the door of the little office, taking no chances that Marla would come up with another stalling tactic.

Everyone finally said "goodbye" for real. Marla and Doc moved to the elevator across the hall, stated "Exit," and within seconds, were transported to the outer portal and the best clear, fresh air the Textile Planet offered.

For several minutes Marla stood just outside the exit portal, inhaling and exhaling the smells of the pajama sheep installation to the west of the hospital. Pajama sheep, being upland mammals, require an elevation several thousand feet higher than that of the valleys where the mills and plantations exist. Devoid of the stifling summer pollen produced by the cotton, flax, and hemp monocultures, the atmosphere up here was truly rarified—pure and perfect for the pajama sheep and others of their ilk.

Marla crinkled her nose, breathing in hints of animal musk riding on the cool air. "I wonder if I could transfer," she said it almost like a question, as if she was asking Doc for permission.

"Oh, I don't see why not, but where would you go?" Doc hustled her along to the transfer tube across the street on the corner. She had no patience for the beauty of the mountains. The air to her was breathable, nothing more. The bare hills dotted with white sheep and their tinkling locators were uninteresting. Rushing from the bustling hospital, Doc never noticed how quiet it was in the little retirement village outside, where no children on holiday rushed about tormenting their parents with screeching and teasing. Only those slow movers who chose to live their days with clean, dry air congregated at such an outpost, this eerily quiet and sane town.

Doc Ivovna was not a slow mover. She didn't bother taking it in, but Marla noticed everything: the sleepy action on the surrounding hills, the quietude of the park benches, the bizarre sense of solitude in the middle of the work day. "Back to the ranch," she said, answering Doc's question of where she would go.

"A person of your talent and experience in the Mill? Don't be ridiculous. I'm sure you don't remember a thing about wool."

"I can sure weave it, though, can't I?"

"The company needs you in the Mill. You need to be in the Mill. You're just a little soft from your vacation. You ran from the ranch, remember?"

"How'd you know?"

"It's in your record," Doc said, a slight tightening in her throat, as if walking and talking were a little too much exercise for her. "Ran straight to the Mill and apprenticed yourself to the first weaver that came along. I imagine your parents were hurt."

"Not really. They encouraged me. They always said, 'Don't work with hooves. Hooves belong to the devil.' "

"So now you're nostalgic and missing the lost times of your romantic youth? Don't leave out all that manual labor. Think about it again after you've been back in the game for a couple of weeks."

"Back in the harness. Yes, you're right. Still, I love that smell."

Doc ignored the remark as if a perennial stuffed nose prevented her from enjoying anything as delicate as sheep dung so why bother sampling it.

Standing in front of the tube entrance, Marla turned to Ivovna. "Doc, in spite of our... difficulties, I really do appreciate all you've done for me. I don't know how you did it, but I am very grateful. I feel like I owe you something. I don't know what, just something, I guess."

"Oh, never mind." Doc urged Marla forward. "You've been a good patient." She followed Marla up the winding stairs and out onto the platform where the Lightray promised to arrive soon.

Running out of leave-taking conversation and unsure of why the doctor continued to hang around, Marla said nothing, eagerly anticipating the final goodbye and her launch into freedom. Finally a whining sound, intensifying in volume and pitch as it traveled up the tube, indicated the approach of the Lightray. The racket of gear-shifts, steam brakes, and double warning whistles signaled the arrival and simultaneous stopping of the train as it wound itself down. Marla turned to shake Doc's hand in an emphatic pushoff, but found Doc bumping into her, apparently on her way into the car.

"Uh, sorry," Marla expelled an uncomfortable laugh. "Actually, I'm fine now, Doc. I can get home from here. There's no need for you to..., uh, I have my debit card, my ID tags, my memory. I'm good."

"I have a mandate to see you home, Marla, and help you back into your life if necessary. I'm planning on spending as much time with you as it takes. I know you're fine, but I must ensure you settle in. I can be with you all weekend if that's what it takes."

Marla's heart sank. How long was this bat going to hang around? Then she realized Ivovna was going to be around all weekend. Ivovna was making sure Marla made it into work on Monday. That was her mandate. Whatever gobbledygook she spouted about her license, her job, her morals, it was all about Marla making it back to work, sane or otherwise. And Doc had to make sure Marla believed everything was her own fault. That's what this thing was about. All this talk about suing the hospital was just a hint of the worries every principal in this game seemed to carry. They were all convinced Marla was going to take action against them: BAC, the hospital, Ivovna, Parker. You bet the insurance company doesn't give a rat's ass. They definitely wanted her up and out, but BAC? They want her back on the line on Monday morning. That's what Charney had been saying. He made a mistake and tipped her off. Ivovna had him fired because of it. And now this, this leech with a psychiatrist's hat was latched onto her. With this setup there was no way she could skip work on Monday morning. Either her weekend plans for a skip had to change immediately, or Doc had to go, had to be convinced that Marla was okay. Not just okay, but okay and rarin' to get back to the cows. Why had she opened her big mouth about a transfer?

They entered the box and found seats just before the Lightray's doors hummed shut and the train lurched to overcome inertia. There would only be a few moments before being deposited in Harper's Mills. Not enough time to convince Doc of anything.

"What about your other patients?"

"Other patients?"

"Yeah, I feel guilty. Don't you have to get back to the hospital and your other patients?"

"I don't have other patients."

"What?"

"You are a very big case, young lady. Takes a lot of time."

Takes as in present tense. Not took as it's all in the past. Present as in "as long as it takes." In other words, until you're satisfactorily brainwashed back into your special saddle in society.

"I'm...sorry," Marla said. "The hospital..."

"No, no, no, no, no." Doc patted her on the knee. "Don't worry about them. I don't even work for them. Just rented the space for the treatment."

"What?"

"I mean, I'm a freelancer. I work on a case-by-case basis. Come and go as I please."

"Oh," Marla said weakly. Everything fell into place. The plot had stewed long enough and was now as thick as the proverbial pea soup. Plot point 1: Out of the greatness of their heart, the insurance company approved a specialist. An accountant/therapist—Doc. Like an insurance company is going to approve a fancy freelance specialist. Right. Plot point 2: A mysterious Aunt Sal is paying the bills. The insurance company? Obviously not. BAC all the way. Plot point 3: Aunt Sal wants her back at work. Why? To prove they did no damage to her. Plot point 4: They don't want her having contact with Charney because he'll spill the stew. So they fire him. Too late, Aunt Sal. Plot point 5: Big-Ass Aunt Sal.

Marla sat back and thought about the mess for a while. She came to the conclusion that she had no conclusions besides the fact that she had to shake Doc. Big-Ass Aunt Sal would never let her quit, they cared not a whit for her sanity, they themselves would sue anything with two legs and they assumed that no matter what Marla said, she would too. They'd never let her quit. Doc had to go.

Without looking up, she said, "Does that mean you're going to help me clean my place and get myself squared away for Monday morning? Because, I mean, that would be so great. I was months behind in my filing even before I had my, uh, accident. And I'm just thinking of all those bills! I'll have to sit right down as soon as I get home and go through everything. I can't tell you how great it is that you're going to help me with that. I feel like I should tip you or something.

"Oh, it's nothing," Doc said. "But really it's best if you go through things like that yourself. It'll help you reacclimatize. I'm just along for the ride."

"Oh, yeah, sure. I know that. I'm not saying you sit down and actually key in the payments or anything. I mean just stay there and watch, of course. Now that I'm putting it all together, I'm seeing how this is going to be fun. I'll order in for both of us. There's a great Guanese place on the courtyard. I could eat Guanese every day. In fact, I do. I know most people can't stand it, what with the anchovies and all, but I love it. You like it? Don't say no till you've tried it." Marla laughed at herself. "Anyway, I should be done with the paperwork by tonight some time. That gives us all day tomorrow and Sunday to clean. I can't imagine what a mess the place is. I'm going to do windows, floor, waste bowls, everything. No vids, no rads, no pills, nothing but scrub-a-dub-dub. Don't you just love all that? And no, you don't have to lift a finger. You can just sit on the fluffy chair and keep the conversation going."

"Okay," Doc said, drawing it out like she was thinking about whether to approve or not. "Actually, I'm only here to make sure you can get back into your place. Once you're there, how you settle yourself in should really be a private affair."

"Oh." Marla's face dropped the smile. Disappointed, she said, "I thought you'd be staying with me until, whenever, I guess. Um, but that's great that you'll at least be seeing me to my door. I'm not sure if I'll be able to get in actually. I'll have to go around and see the director, Mr. Lundgren. He's a great guy. Got three kids. Marcy, Shirl, and Litsy. Marcy's five, Shirl's eight, and Litsy's ten, no eleven. No ten, she hasn't had her birthday yet. Last year for her tenth birthday, I got her one of those puzzler packs. You know the ones that have the siren go off whenever you win. I gave her that and we played all that day. The thing was going off constantly. The neighbors hit the ceiling. Course it wasn't fair because I was a grownup, so I helped her. She's such a cute kid and so bright. Wait till you meet her. And talented. You'll just love her. I hope she's home when we drop by. Hey, maybe we can take her out. Take all the girls out for ice cream. You'll love that little Marcy. She's an absolute pip. Do you think we can do that? I mean before I get started on the bills. I'd sure love to. You'd love it too. They're so cute. And bright! Wow. I love those kids like they're my own. They are practically. They almost live in my apartment. They'll be up the whole time I'm home. So you think we can? You'll love it. We can even do the puzzler pack thing. You know, the one with the siren."

Marla spoke rapidly as if the blurred landscape images flying past the Lightray's viewports egged her on.

"Um, actually, you've reminded me that I have to get back," Doc said. "I have a potential child case I should bid for. I had forgotten about that."

"I thought I was your only patient. You said..."

"Yes, for now. But as of this weekend, I'm out of work." Doc smiled tightly. "I've got to go and make some calls, try to rustle up my next victim." She patted Marla on the knee again.

"Why sure, Doc. Go get 'em. But you know, you could call from my place. I don't mind. I'll just be in the kitchen, pounding out payments. It's a one-roomer, but you can have privacy over in the bed area. Or we'll go for ice cream right away and then you could meet my girls before you go."

"I'd love to, really, but I probably shouldn't."

"Okay, I understand." Marla, duly disappointed, finally gave in. The Lightray slowed to visual speed for the last mile before the stop at Harper's Mills. Outside, the passing scenery changed from an in between town blur to the buildings and spires of Marla's city. The low-rise district of marble and bronze buildings represented the shi-shi area where designers and procurers lived. The designers of name-brand fabrics were the highest level of Mill society. The procurers, or purchasers, who cohabitated with them here in the fritsy sector, were independently wealthy patrons of the industry. They shipped the goods to slave planets for assembly and distribution to wealthier pockets of the galaxy where those who could afford natural fibers lived and bought. These magnates hung with the artists in this expensive area, snorting hash and drinking 140 proof Snock. They were Marla's clientele. BAC's clientele, rather. She never met any of them. They sat in the dark during the shows while she coordinated behind stage, watching, barely breathing. Afterwards, during the Veuve Cliquot and Gouda, the Lamont and Shurm types mingled, joked, entertained, and closed deals. During the champagne and cheese hour, Marla went home to bed, exhausted after a twelve-hour day.

Past the high rent area, they pulled closer to the station and the neighborhood eased to casual. Here the buildings rose, blocking out the sun and the view. Marble gave way to sandstone with granite detail. Dust in the sills and last year's leaf litter waiting for the rake indicated light housekeeping resolve. No matter. It was home, gray as it was.

"Well, this is my stop," Marla said as the twitching train lurched to its stop. "Shall we go?"

"Yeah, uh, let me just check the monitor for a return trip."

"Really? Oh, okay. There's one over there by the ticket booth."

"Yes, and while I'm at it, I should get my..."

"If you must, but I think you'll be sorry."

"Marla, you have to let go. You're getting too dependent on me."

"I know, Doc. Don't worry about me. I'm fine. It's just that, well, I think you've become a very close friend and I'll miss you and our little talks. I've been seeing you, what, three, four times a week for the past, what, seven weeks? We're practically family now. You don't just cut a closed loop like that overnight. I don't suppose I could call you tonight? I mean, once I've got my bills done and my hellos to my neighbors—and the girls. I've got to go see Saddle and..."

"Uh, I think you should try to...How's this thing work?" She was punching buttons and pulling on levers on the ticket dispenser with no success.

"You punch in your destination," Marla scrolled through the list of stops. "What's your port point? You live where?"

"Oh, I'll do it. I understand now." Doc scrolled through and found her place and punched the TELL button and dropped her debit marble into the receptacle. The box hummed and clicked until the marble returned out the bottom into Doc's waiting palm. A paper ticket floated to the ground at Doc's feet.

"Tenelope Last, huh?" Marla said, picking up the ticket and reading it. "Fancy!"

"Yes," Doc answered hastily, grabbing the slip and then finishing her previous thought. "You need to be alone on this, Marla. You'll be back to work on Monday. You have to get mentally prepared for that. How about I call you next week to see how you're doing?"

"Next week? Why so long? How about I call you tomorrow?"

"Marla. You don't need to be calling me when you've got all that work to do. Right?"

They'd reached the bus stand by now and embarked on a waiting airbus. In two minutes they found themselves at the cubicular high rise Marla called home. Constructed of poly cement with silica crystals embedded at jaunty angles in a mosaic pattern on the front depicting the outline of Anthusia Mill—the village patron—the building towered to fifty-nine floors. Somewhere in the middle stood Marla's floor and her room, which was soon to be reprogrammed by Lundgren, the super, so she could get in.

They entered the building through the first floor pocket entrance, the glass doors sliding horizontally into the building walls to let them pass. Guests standing in the lobby stared at Marla's hospital garb. She knew they knew who she was, where she'd been, and what she'd done. Everyone in the building was connected to either the Mill or the outlying cotton plantations. Everyone worked in one way or another for BAC. And news of her insurrection would have been on everyone's minds since the incident. Somehow Marla didn't care even though she knew they probably hated her for upsetting the apple cart and maybe even costing somebody a job here or there. She heard whispers echoing through the vast chamber. Somewhere in a corner chair, somebody stifled a snicker.

Under normal circumstances Marla would have felt uncomfortable, angry even, at the invasion of her privacy. But Marla was a new person. Her therapy, the weeks of self study and thoughts of who she might be, gave her a lot of insight into the nature of the human as animal. Especially herself. Having a lost identity builds a certain strength of character. Nothing, not loss of parents, money, status, home, or job, can disorient you more than loss of self. Once you've lost yourself, you've lost everything. It's as close to being a non-entity anyone can ever become. The closest anyone can ever get to being dead without actually dying. The experience allows you to see yourself as you really are, without the accoutrements of your station and identity. You can't constantly compare yourself to those around you. You can't make judgments on them or weigh their words against your own. You can't fall back into old patterns of motivation. You can only go from here and weigh everything against the evidence of the present. In other words, nothing matters anymore.

The people staring at Marla Gershe saw a cold, work-besotted shell, who slavishly turned herself into a rabid animal for the sake of the BAC work ethic. One day the rabid animal turned and bit and was reportedly destroyed. But now here she was again, back to resume her old, maniacal lifestyle. But they were wrong. In reality what walked before them was a new Marla Gershe, unknown, untested, and strong of character. And she'd be gone before they ever saw it.

"Mr. Lundgren," she called to a man crossing the lobby to the elevator bank.

The man swung around. He had a metallic badge sewn onto the upper right sleeve of his uniform waistcoat. "Why Marla Gershe. You're early," he said.

"Early?"

"Yes, you must have taken the ten-fifteen."

"I guess. I didn't know I had an appointment." She smiled and turned to Doc. "Doc, you made arrangements?"

"I called and left a message you'd be here around noon."

"You're the greatest. I really owe you a lunch. How long you going to be around?"

"Marla, we'll do something next week, remember?"

"Yeah, all right." Marla tried to not sound disappointed. Doc was obviously concerned about separation anxiety and Marla wanted to make sure Doc knew she was trying real hard not to be dependent.

Lundgren interrupted the lunch plans. "I imagine you'll want your room reprogrammed, yes?" He was tapping a code into a lock box on a side door by the elevators. The door swung open and he stepped into the little super's closet containing the paraphernalia of his trade: spy monitors, security terminal, key card makers, and faucet wrenches for malfunctioning plumbing.

"Yes," Marla answered, standing at the door. "By the way, how's the girls?"

"Girls?"

"Marcy, Shirl. Your daughters. I was trying to get Doc to come and have ice cream. I thought I'd take the girls out."

"Oh, yeah. The girls. Well, they're fine, Ms. Gershe. They're visiting their cousins over at Backum this weekend. Before school starts up y'know. They always spend summers there."

"Oh really? Oh yeah, I forgot about that. That's too bad. I'll have to surprise them some other time."

"Well, that's very nice of you, but it's not really necessary." Lundgren beckoned her to step inside. He nodded his head at a molded plastic box sitting on a table in front of him. "Just put your hand in the print capture there." Marla inserted her hand in the opening on the side. A flash of light emanated from the box accompanied by a "click" after which Lundgren said, "That's it, got it," meaning the box had captured her hand imprint and stored it in its data file. Lundgren's fingers danced a jig on a keyboard attached to the box, presumably storing her room number alongside her handprint inside the box's memory.

"You're all set, " he said. "You can go up anytime."

"Thanks, Mr. Lundgren."

She turned to the doorway where Doc was standing watching.

"Doc, right this way," she said.

"Oh, Marla, this is as far as I go," Doc answered as Marla passed out into the lobby. "My mandate was to make sure you got yourself back into your environment. You can certainly go the rest of the way yourself."

"What? Not even any coffee?"

"Coffee?" Doc looked at Marla, alarmed. "I don't dare coffee."

"Tea then? Ice cream?" Marla said it teasingly, as if no one could possibly resist ice cream.

"No, I've got to get going."

Marla tried not to look disappointed, putting up a valiant effort, shaking off an obvious codependency. "Yeah, I know. You've got calls to make. I understand and I know you're right. I have to get used to being on my own again. I'll be fine. Can I at least walk you to the bus? We could stop..."

"No, Marla. Has to be a clean break. You go upstairs. Here, let me get the elevator." They'd been standing next to the elevators, battling Marla's abandonment. Doc reached up and waved over "UP" as Marla stood bravely smiling and slowly nodding her head in apparent agreement.

"All right," Marla said as the elevator came to a stop. She turned to Doc and held open her arms for a big, sloppy hug.

"Goodbye, Marla. Good luck," Doc said, not flinching, standing in firm psychiatric resolve to cut the umbilical cord.

"Bye, Doc," Marla said, nodding and smiling. She turned into the elevator and ordered "twenty-eight." As the doors closed, she waved tearfully to the doc who was staunchly holding her this-hurts-me-more-than-it-hurts-you demeanor.

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