“It’s time,” I say, rattled from our session.
She pauses, places a lone finger to her lips, and hands me a pink note. On it: an address written in a childlike cursive hand.
“Shh,” she whispers, her forehead resting in her palm, “don’t tell Runner.”
I wonder if I’m being tricked—Runner waiting in the wings and ready to seize the Body and pounce. Don’t forget, Doc. I see everything.
I hesitate, suspicious, but Mohsin’s words find their way into my mind: She’s frightened, Daniel. You have to earn her trust. It takes time.
She smiles and turns her feet inward. Hands nervous and wringing.
I quickly place the pink note in my pocket.
“The Groom House?” I whisper.
Dolly nods.
Thank you, I mouth.
She stands and gathers her red satchel and pale blue mittens. Takes her time to hang the strap diagonally, then pushes her hands through thick knitted wool. I also stand. My internal supervisor preventing me from running over our boundaried fifty minutes regardless of my desire to hear more about last night’s espionage involving a photo shoot.
“Maybe you can ask Runner to come next time,” I speak loudly.
“I’ll try,” she says, rubbing together her mittens, “but she doesn’t like it here very much.”
“I know. She thinks I ask too many questions. She wants to protect you.”
Dolly glances down at the rug between us.
“I guess,” she says, eyes fixed on her feet. A nervous lean. “Oh, I forgot to tell you; the Flock keep traveling back in time, just like Doctor Who. It’s not nice. It feels scary.”
“You mean like a flashback?”
She shrugs.
“It’s okay,” I say, walking her to the door, “we’ll figure it out, Dolly.”
“Bye-bye, Mr. Talky.” She waves.
I sit down at my desk, hoping that penning some notes will ease my surging disquiet. I place the pink note in my top drawer along with a bunch of unopened letters and take out my notebook, a mild shake to my hand:
Alexa Wú: January 10
Dolly has disclosed the Flock’s dangerous and compromised “evidence gathering” at the Groom House (address to be confirmed). She claims to have “woken up” and witnessed Alexa taking photographs of Poy-Poy and Britney. (Explore this, very confusing narrative. Are they the same person?) She also alludes to an increase in headaches, flashbacks, loss of time, and mood swings.
Today I observed her switching into alternate self-states at great speed, again, and have written a script for additional risperidone and quetiapine—twice daily. I have also suggested she ask Anna to help her remember her medication, and she was not averse to the idea.
It seems Alexa’s personalities are warring for autonomy and power. It is now much clearer how Alexa (and her dissociated parts) functions, detailing her behaviors when engaging in specific situations (e.g., at work, when faced with conflict, and in relationships) and we are discovering how adaptive these action tendencies can be.
Oneiroi (I think) cited that Runner is keen for the Flock to uncover the trafficking ring and expose Navid (the Recruiter).
Tow, or Tao (the Transporter), is operating from mainland China, where the girls are coerced, purchased, and trafficked via Myanmar, Laos, and Malaysia in small groups or individually. From my understanding, they have come from poor families or parents who believe their daughters will be offered a better life. Tow/Tao’s sister—Cassie (the Middleman/Harborwoman)—is responsible for live pornographic streaming of underage girls, of whom there are approximately fifteen, all being held at the Groom House, where Cassie lives. She acts as “mother,” madam, carer, discipliner, enforcer, and the main link to buyers—mostly men.
I have warned the Flock about the potential danger they are in, suggesting that one of them—preferably Alexa? or Oneiroi—contact the police as soon as possible. If she is unable to do this, then I will need to report these crimes to the authorities myself.
I am left wondering about Alexa’s role in all of this. Is she acting as negotiator for all of her personalities? Or is she a conduit? A body? A hostage?
For a moment my confidence is lost, my mind turning blank—too tired to think—white noise replacing any prognosis. “I need coffee,” I speak out loud, and then as if from nowhere a voice—low, mean, and vindictive—whispers in my ear: Just one little drink, no one would ever know.