There’s a test. I took it on the Internet a few times. It’s a yes-or-no test. There are no ovals. There are no right answers. The test is wrong, so all your answers are wrong if you have to take the test. It is a lose-lose situation.
The first question on the test is: Have you or has a loved one experienced or witnessed a life-threatening event that caused intense fear, helplessness, or horror?
There are twenty-three other questions.
If you answer yes to any of them, you are supposed to tell your doctor.
I think about the first question. Have you or has a loved one experienced or witnessed a life-threatening event that caused intense fear, helplessness, or horror?
This is a test for PTSD—post-traumatic stress disorder.
As far as I’m concerned, everyone is a witness. As far as I’m concerned, if anyone says they’re not, they are lying worse than Lansdale Cruise. As far as I’m concerned, this first question reads like one of China’s poems.
Have you
or has a loved one
experienced
or
witnessed
a
life-threatening event
that caused intense fear,
helplessness,
or horror?
We are still standing in the perfect field with Patricia. She says, “The whole world causes me intense fear, helplessness, and horror.”
I say, “You should tell your doctor.” Then I stare at her as if she is untrustworthy. Mind readers are slippery.
“Not always,” she says.
Gustav is too busy unloading a few things from the helicopter to hear this or understand that Patricia, like the dangerous bush man, can read minds.
I’d like to ask Patricia what Gustav thinks of me.
“He loves you,” she says.
“Shhh,” I say. “He can hear you.”
“Only if he’s listening.”
We watch him rifle through a box. He finds the quality letter P from the dangerous bush man and hands it to her.
She says, “Can you take me to him?”
Gustav and I look at each other and shrug.
“Kenneth,” she says, and holds up the P. “You know him? He made this for me.” When neither of us answers, she says, “Fuel. We must get fuel.”