Seven ten a.m. After Nurse Biedermann and her mouse-in-sensible-white-shoes left with Riley’s latest medication refusal, but before she could head to breakfast, Henry knocked at her door. “Hey, Ready Riley!” the orderly said, grinning. “How goes the hardest convict in lockup?”
“I’m good, Henry. How’re you?”
“Excellent. I’m always excellent. That way I have one less choice to make.”
He dug in his clipboard and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Last minute change to your schedule. Individualized Cognitive Therapy with Dr. Eleanor Nakamura, tomorrow afternoon, room one fourteen, two o’clock.”
She’s baaaack. “Why the change?”
“Dr. Nakamura specializes in what the doctors like to call ‘difficult patients.’ Normally she doesn’t see folks for ICT this early in the process—likes to let ’em settle in for a while—but I hear tell you’ve jumped to the front of the line on the ‘difficult’ part.”
“Great,” she said flatly, taking the revised schedule.
“I’ll have somebody swing by tomorrow to bring you downstairs,” he said, and started for the door.
“Hey, Henry?”
“Yeah?”
“Can we get books in here?”
“There’s some in the cafeteria, the exercise room—”
“Yeah, and they’re all stupid—self-help books, romance novels, books about how to catch fish in Montauk—”
“I like that book,” he said ominously.
“Only because it’s got lots of pictures.”
“You trying to start something?” he asked, somehow managing to frown and smile at the same time.
“All I’m asking is, are those the only books we can get in here?”
“Yes and no. In theory we have a deal with a library down the street that lets us check out books requested by patients. It worked pretty well most of the time, except when the patients didn’t give them back in the same condition they’d gotten ’em. Administration got tired of constantly having to pony up the cash to buy new books, so they hit pause for a while. Since then, all we get are magazines like Home and Garden, Modern Bride, Family Attractions, except some idiot keeps tearing out the pages until there’s nothing left but shreds.”
“Is the library program still on pause?”
“No idea. Nobody’s mentioned it in a while. Probably avoiding the subject. Most of the newer orderlies probably don’t even know about it. I can ask around, though. Why?”
“If I gave you a list of books, could you get them for me? Having something to read in here might make me less . . . what’s a good word . . . difficult,” she said, smiling as broadly as the edges of her face would allow.
Henry laughed so hard she worried for a moment that he might pass out. “Man, if I ever wondered what a shark looks like when it smiles, I never have to wonder again.” he said. “Okay, I’ll ask around, see what I can find out. Meanwhile, don’t forget: two o’clock tomorrow. Be ready, Ready Riley.”
“Roger dodger,” she said.
* * *
Breakfast began uneventfully.
It didn’t stay that way.
As the rest of the ARC group sat together at one end of the cafeteria, Riley sat alone at the other, finishing a bowl of cereal and her usual orange juice and tea, watching with amusement as the same nervous orderly as before maneuvered food between Frankenstein’s lips. When the plate was empty, he returned the tray to the kitchen with the look of a man who had stared death in the face and survived.
When Riley looked back, she noticed that Frankenstein was doing something with his hands just beneath the edge of the table. It took her a moment to decipher the small, stiff movements and realize that he was unfolding a paper clip.
Then he shoved one end of the paper clip under his fingernail.
She shrieked before she even realized she’d done it.
Frankenstein didn’t react, not to her, or to the hard metal clip as it dug deep beneath his fingernail. His face was blank, a tiny trickle of blood ribboning down his hand the only clue to what he was doing.
The orderly rushed back, drawn by her distress, and followed her gaze to the table. “Ah shit,” he said, “not again.”
Screwing up his courage, he returned to the table and held out his hand. “Hand it over. C’mon. Give.”
Frankenstein kept doing what he was doing.
The orderly toggled his walkie. “Code green, Cafeteria. Need some help up here.”
Several more orderlies quickly entered, followed by Kaminski. “I was on my way to my office when I heard the code green. What’s the problem?”
When Frankenstein saw Kaminski, his eyes went from dead and empty to dark and dangerous, shadowed by rage. He pulled himself to his feet, the chair falling behind him, lips skinned back in a feral snarl.
“Deal with him,” Kaminski told the orderlies in a way that sounded like he had given that order many times before.
Before they could move, Frankenstein launched himself at the orderlies, tearing wildly at them in a desperate attempt to get to Kaminski. Patients scrambled out of the way or stood back to watch the fight, except for Riley. She wasn’t watching Frankenstein. She was watching Kaminski.
He was smiling.
There’s history between them, she realized. He’s enjoying this. Fucking sadist. Bet he wishes he could be the one doing the beating but he’s too much of a coward, so he just watches from the sidelines.
“Stand back!” one of the orderlies yelled, and pulled a stun gun from his belt. He switched it on, electricity arcing between twin metallic poles, then zapped Frankenstein in the side.
He stiffened, arced back, and fell to the floor. The orderlies pinned his hands behind his back, slid zip ties over his wrists and ratcheted them closed.
Only now did Kaminski approach, reaching to an orderly for a syringe. “Hold tight,” he told the others, “I’ve seen him shake off shocks before.”
As they pushed Frankenstein’s face into the floor, Kaminski pulled up his sleeve, found a vein, and pushed the needle deep. A moment later, the sedative reached the bright-red rage in his heart, and his eyes grew soft, then closed.
“Get him to his room,” Kaminski said. “Full restraints. Twenty-four hours.”
The orderlies slung him over their shoulders and dragged him out of the cafeteria toward a waiting stretcher.
When he was gone, Kaminski looked to the other patients as though inviting a challenge. Anyone got something they’d like to say?
No one spoke.
Didn’t think so, his eyes seemed to say as he strolled out of the cafeteria.
* * *
Riley was walking to the exercise area, desperate to run off the events of the day, when she passed the art room and saw Steve sitting alone at a worktable, looking lost in thought.
She knocked on the door. “Hey. How’s it going?”
“Okay. You?”
“It’s been a day. Could I sponge some change off you for a Snickers? Honestly, the way this day is going, it’s the only thing that’s gonna help.”
“Sure thing,” he said, digging in his pocket for quarters.
“You weren’t at breakfast this morning.”
“Didn’t feel like eating. I’m waiting for news about my sister. She was rear-ended at a traffic light last night by some asshole who was having an argument with his girlfriend and wasn’t looking where he was going. Practically totaled the car. Just wanted to be by myself, you know?”
Yeah, I know what that feels like, she wanted to say, but this wasn’t the time, the place, or the vibe. “I can go if you want the private time.”
“I’m good. Just didn’t want to be around a crowd is all.”
“Is she going to be okay?”
“She got banged up pretty good, but my mom says she’s awake and responding to the doctors. We’ll know for sure once they finish the last of the MRIs. I’m supposed to have a supervised visit off campus with her in a few weeks, so with luck, this won’t mess things up. I really think she needs to talk.”
“Is this the sister your dad said he’d disinherit if you didn’t check in for treatment?”
“Yep.”
“Gotta say, that’s pretty harsh. Totes nineteenth century.”
He allowed a smile. “Money is what he uses to control people. I’m okay with fighting him because I can’t stand the son of a bitch, and if I lose it all, then so be it. But I love my sister, she’s always been there for me when I needed her, and he knows it, so he tries to hurt her to get to me, and I won’t have it.”
“What about your mom?”
“She doesn’t get into it—like, any of it. As long as she’s taken care of, so she can keep shopping at Barney’s and have spa day once a week at the Four Seasons and do the golf thing with her friends, it doesn’t matter what he does, she just pretends it’s not happening and looks the other way.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “It is what it is.”
Then Riley heard something buzzing. She looked around for the source, when Steve held up a finger.
“One second,” he said, and reached into his pocket and pulled out a cellphone.
“Yeah, hey Mom, what’s the latest? . . . Okay, well, that’s good . . . Yeah, muscles always hurt worse the next day, so that’ll be fun. Are they still going to keep her overnight for a CAT scan? . . . Good, great, yeah, I’ll give her a call when she gets home, make sure she’s still doing okay . . . Yep . . . No, just sitting talking with a friend . . . Okay, chat later . . . Love you too.”
He clicked off the phone and glanced up to see Riley staring at him, open-mouthed with astonishment. “What?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you had a cellphone!”
“I said to let me know if there was anybody you needed me to contact.”
Riley struggled for words. “I know, but there’s a difference . . . I mean . . . I figured you were going to use one of the phones downstairs, and they’re not safe and, and . . . and why didn’t you tell me, and how the hell do you have a phone?”
“It’s one of the benefits of being a self-commit, at least on this side of the hospital. They even let me use the Wi-Fi as long as there’s no porn involved, and I turn the phone off during therapy sessions and overnight.”
“Can I borrow it? Just for five minutes?”
“I’m not supposed to.”
“Yeah, I figured. So can I?”
He frowned, thought about it for a moment, then started to hand over the phone.
“Under the table,” she said, glancing to the open door. She didn’t see any orderlies, but that didn’t mean there weren’t eyes or cameras on them. “Hand me the change for the Snickers with one hand and slide the phone to me under the table with the other.”
“No problem, Double-oh-seven.”
Okay, now what do I do? she thought as her hand closed over the phone, running names through her head until she found the only one she knew would be safe.
She turned her back to the door, opened the texting app, and typed in a number, followed by,
A minute passed. Then:
Maybe. Can you access Wi-Fi where you are?
“You about done?” Steve asked.
“One second,” Riley said. Fingers flashing over the screen, she hit the link, downloaded the app, then quickly deleted the texts and the number.
“Thanks,” she said, and was in the middle of handing back the phone under the table when Henry yelled her name, startling her so badly that she almost dropped it.
“Yo, Ready Riley!” he called from the doorway. “I looked into the library thing like I promised. I didn’t talk to the staff or McGann about it to keep from putting it on their radar, ’cause I knew they’d say no, so I called the head librarian. Turns out the loan program is still up. So what books do you want me to get?”
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a list she’d written on the back of the previous day’s schedule. “Is this okay?”
He ran a finger down the list. “Yeah, these should be fine—”
He stopped at the last entry. “You sure about this one?” he asked.
“Yeah. Honestly, if I had to pick one, that’s the most important, so if you can get it, that’d be great.”
“Okay,” he said dubiously as he headed for the door, “no promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”
* * *
At 1:45 the next afternoon, an orderly appeared at Riley’s door and led her to the second-floor elevators at the south end of the hospital. She watched carefully as he used a key card to open the elevator doors and punched in a code—41172—before descending to the first floor. Good start, but I still need to figure out if the code is tied to his card or if it’s for general use.
When the doors opened, he led her down several familiar puke-green hallways toward the executive offices. Having paced out the upper floors several times, she was now able to triangulate their layout to the main floor, associating this window with that room directly above, this staircase with that fire door two stories up, and the location of offices and desktop computers.
Two more left turns brought them to room 114.
“Good to see you again,” Dr. Nakamura said when the door closed. “I thought it might be more casual if we met here instead of the therapy rooms. Please have a seat.”
“Couch or chair?”
“Whichever makes you more comfortable.”
Riley took the chair facing the desk, then wondered if her choice carried any psychological meaning. Aha! An uncomfortable chair person, not a fuzzy, happy couch person! Burn the witch!
Shut up, she told herself. We need to focus.
“Riley?”
“What?”
“I asked how it’s been going.”
“Sorry. Sometimes the voices in my brain start ping-ponging back and forth and I tune out. But I’m not crazy.”
“It’s definitely not crazy,” Nakamura said, smiling. “It’s actually completely normal. We all have more than one voice in our head at all times, taking different sides or positions. You could say it’s the inner we breaking apart to examine a question or a subject from a number of different perspectives in order to stress-test the truth or the question, and what we should say in response. Our understanding of this goes all the way back to Freud, who said there were three parts of the mind: the id, who wants things, the ego, which is our identity, who it is that wants those things, and the superego, which is the part of us that balances those desires against what we should or shouldn’t do within the limits and rules of society. The modern term for it is dissociative thinking, which describes a process by which one part of the brain pulls away from the rest to assess information and emotions, then tells the rest of the brain how to respond. Any time you hear someone say, ‘I was going to take that job, but at the last minute I went with my gut,’ or ‘I wanted to go on the trip, but some part of me kept pushing the other way,’ that’s dissociative thinking. Basically, it’s the brain starting an argument with itself. In severe cases, this can lead to depersonalization, identity confusion—”
“Is that why some people think they hear voices?”
“Sometimes, yes. Trauma can lead people to interpret the voices in their heads as someone else speaking, which can be symptomatic of the personality beginning to fragment, creating new ‘voices’ with each break. But again, that only happens in extreme cases. For everyone else, it’s natural to have ongoing inner debates. The field of psychiatry is all about humans using our brains to figure out our brains, which would be impossible without the distance provided by such cognitive processes.”
She’s being nice. Too nice. It’s a trap. She’s been upgraded by Skynet to a T-1000.
Will. You. Shut. up?
“So, how has it been going? I imagine all this must still be a bit of a shock.”
“It’s fine.”
“Everyone treating you all right, then?”
“So far.” It was both an answer and a challenge.
“Good,” Nakamura said, without acknowledging her tone. “The reason I wanted to see you is that Dr. Kaminski mentioned during our staff meeting yesterday that you’ve been having a hard time opening up in group therapy. I hope you understand that those sessions are intended for your benefit, and sometimes that means asking personal or painful questions, which can be even more difficult in a group setting. But the more you open up to the staff, the doctors, and other patients, the sooner you can heal, and the better we can evaluate the therapeutic process as we go forward.
“So I thought I’d see if I can help move that along a little by providing a safe space where the two of us can nonjudgmentally discuss anything you might not be comfortable sharing with a large group. My role here is to encourage, not to enforce, to listen rather than fill the room with my own ideas. This is about you talking out whatever is troubling you. I may sometimes lead the conversation in directions I think may prove constructive, but the rest of the time I’m happy to rabbit-trail into anything you’d prefer to talk about. I want you to think of my office as a place where you can speak freely.”
Okay, let’s test that. “So were you here before the ARC thing started?”
“Barely, yes. Just over six months. I received my formal training at St. George’s University in London, then moved here to Seattle in search of opportunities outside the limited confines of the British mental health system. I was lucky enough to be hired by Dr. Munroe, who said that it might take time to work my way up through the roster because all the senior positions were filled. Then the ARC program started, and I was able to get in on the ground floor of something that would give me the opportunity to do some real good.”
And having fewer senior doctors ahead of you meant a quicker road to advancement, Riley thought, remembering what Julian had said. “There are always going to be people like Saruman, who prefer to bend with the wind than stand against it, especially if the money’s right.”
Nakamura opened a file on her tablet. “In going over your paperwork, I was impressed by your high school records. Until your parents passed away, you were an A student. Then you quit school and started getting into trouble. The letters of support provided by your teachers the first time you were arrested said you were a brilliant student with a high IQ, interested in history, politics, literature . . . good verbal skills, convincing in debates . . . you even showed some talent as a writer before everything fell apart.”
Riley shrugged. “I guess.”
“No need to feel defensive about it. Anyone who suffered such a tragic loss at that age would have a hard time staying in school. You were angry at the world, and needed to do something with all that negative energy, so you started looking for a fight, a cause, anything that would fill the hole left behind by their passing. One of the ways people cope with extreme emotions is to externalize them. ‘I can’t punch my grief, but I can punch that thing over there.’ That may be part of what led you to externalize your anger into protests, getting more and more involved until they practically became your entire life. Continuing your parents’ participation in the protest movement may have been a way to help keep them alive in your heart. And that makes a rough kind of sense.
“But here’s the part I can’t quite work out, Riley. You’re smart enough to understand how much you risk every time you take part in these things, you’re living one of them right now, so why keep doing it?”
Riley clicked through half a dozen answers that would defer and deflect before deciding, Let’s tap on the goldfish bowl and see what we’re up against. “Because it’s important to take a stand.”
“Isn’t that what elections and ballot boxes are for?”
“Everyone keeps saying that, but they don’t work anymore.”
“You think the process is rigged?”
“No. If it was rigged, that would be great, because then you could find out who’s doing it and stop them. But that’s not the problem.”
“Then what is? Understand that I’m still fairly new to the ARC program, and I confess I’ve never actually been to a protest, so I genuinely want to get my arms around why this is so important, not just for you but the other patients as well.”
Riley glanced out the window and frowned. How do you explain water to a goldfish who’s surrounded by it? It’s everywhere but invisible, and she wouldn’t want to see it even if she could, because that would introduce the concept of the fishbowl and the limits of being fed by a giant hand that only drops in food when doing so is useful to its agenda.
“I can’t speak for anybody other than myself,” she said at last, “so if you’re looking for someone to explain why everybody else is doing what they do—like, ‘Speak for your generation’—that’s not going to happen. So just speaking from my point of view, it seems like everybody running the government is on the take. Is one side worse than the other? Sure. But in the end they all work for the guys who have money and power and like to spread it around to their friends. Elections can’t change that because the system itself has been corrupted.
“Once upon a time people voted for someone to represent their town who understood what needed to be done to make their lives better and he worked really hard to make that stuff happen before going back to his real job, planting or being a silversmith, or whatever. It was like doing jury duty. But that’s not how it works anymore. As soon as they’re elected they stop listening to anyone but the guys with the money and power, who help them get reelected forever in return for passing bills that give them even more money and power. They don’t do squat for the people who actually voted for them because that’s not who they work for anymore. You think the folks back home voted to destroy the environment? I never saw that on a ballot, did you? Nobody in charge ever asked for a vote about militarizing the police to where they look like an invading army, and there’s never been a national public vote about health care and never will be, because the drug companies won’t allow it.
“I read once that never in history have the people of one country decided to go to war with another. Not once. It’s the leaders, the kings and the presidents and the parliaments, who make the call. They declare war and tell everyone to fight in it. They don’t put it on a ballot so people can decide for themselves because they know what would happen. ‘Do you want to die in a war or have your son or brother die so a bunch of people with money and land and crowns and titles can get even more money and land and crowns and titles? Pick A for yes and B for no.’
“Like I said, I can’t speak for anybody else, but I don’t show up for protests because it makes me feel closer to my folks, because they’re always right here inside me. I don’t do it because I enjoy it, or because it’s fun. Nobody likes getting their head beaten in. But more and more lately it’s like the only way we can get anything done or stopped is by taking to the streets and forcing the issue into the public eye, so the people in charge have to talk about it. That’s our ballot box. That’s where we vote. That’s where we get heard.
“You said I was good at history, and you’re right. As a kid I learned all about how the Founding Fathers threw British tea into the sea in a big protest. But the protest wasn’t about the tea, it wasn’t even about the taxes; it was about being taxed without a chance to discuss it and vote on it. ‘No taxation without representation,’ right? They could’ve just said, ‘We’re not gonna pay any more taxes’ and stay home,” but they didn’t, because that wasn’t the point. It was about not being given a voice in the process. That’s where we are now. We don’t have a voice or a choice anymore, because we’re not being represented. As soon as the government starts doing what the people who can’t afford to bribe them actually want, I’ll hang up my boots and go back to school. Until then, I’m in the streets with everybody else.”
“Not at the moment,” Nakamura corrected. “Right now, you’re here.”
“True,” Riley said, “but not to stay.”
“One certainly hopes,” Nakamura said.
And Riley didn’t care at all for the way she said it.
“I can see why you also did well in debate, Riley, and I appreciate the emotions behind what you’re saying. You’re smart and you’ve clearly given this a great deal of thought, but you must know that no country can be run by mob rule.”
“Don’t recall suggesting that, but keep going.”
“I’m not trying to antagonize you,” she said. “And I’m not saying that you’re entirely wrong. I’m just saying that there may be more constructive ways of dealing with our emotions. You said you want to get out of here. Did you really mean that?”
“Obviously.”
“Then we have our first point of agreement. I want to see you leave here in six months, whole and healthy and ready to go back to your life. Whether you stop protesting afterward is outside my control. All I can do is to help you take the kind of practical steps that will show you’re trying to get better.”
“What kind of steps?”
Nakamura pulled a printed sheet of paper out of her desk drawer. “For instance, signing something like this would be a wonderful start. Give it a look and tell me what you think.”
Riley took the form and began reading.
To Whom It May Concern:
I, ___________________, acknowledge and affirm that my participation in illegal protests, uncivil activities, and criminal actions against the Government of the United States was done at the bidding, encouragement, and facilitation of individuals acting on behalf of foreign powers hostile to American interests. I regret those actions and fully repudiate them. As an act of good faith, I hereby append the names and contact information of the following individuals who were engaged with me in these activities:
I am proud to be an American, supportive of this Administration, and thankful for the opportunity to address my past mistakes through the American Renewal Act. My treatment while in the ARC program was responsible, humane, and helpful.
I make this statement freely and of my own will, without duress of any kind.
Name (please spell)
Signature
Date
Several eternities passed before Riley raised her gaze from the page. “I can’t sign this.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not true.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s just a piece of paper. You sign it, it goes in your file as a show of good faith, and that’s that.”
“Right, and later on, if I say I didn’t mean it when I signed this, then I’m identifying myself as a liar, which puts me on the road to somebody saying, ‘Okay, so if you were lying then how do we know you’re not lying now, and why should we trust anything you have to say about anything—ever?’ ”
“Riley—”
“And what’s this bullshit about giving up the names of my friends?”
“First, they’re not your friends, they’re using you. Second, you don’t have to give any names that we don’t already have. You could just give us the names of people who have already been convicted or arrested—”
“Which could be used against them when they come up for parole.”
“I doubt it would make much of a difference. Most of these people already have long records.”
“Well, I’m one of these people, and if I found out a friend turned on me, I’d never be able to trust them again, but that’s the point, isn’t it? To make it so we can’t trust each other.”
Nakamura sighed wearily and sat back. “Look, Riley, I’m going to be honest with you, and I hope you appreciate the risk I’m taking with that, all right? I don’t agree with everything the government is doing. I thought the Ten-Plus ruling was a terrible mistake, and there’s a lot about the ARC program that needs to be addressed. We can either fight those things from the outside, which is what put you in here, or we can fight them from the inside. That’s why I joined McGann’s team, so I could give you and all the other patients the support and information you need to get out of here. If a stupid piece of paper means you can walk out the door when the time comes, I’m all for it, and you should be too, don’t you think?”
See? I told you she’d been upgraded to a T-1000. She’s trying really hard to look just like one of us, but every time she talks she goes all silver-faced on us.
Will you . . . Actually, that’s pretty accurate.
thank you.
“You don’t want to know what I think,” Riley said.
“Of course I do. This whole session is about you and for you.”
“Okay, then here’s what I think. I can’t decide if you actually believe the horseshit you’re shoveling, or if this is just what you say to convince people to sign that piece of paper. If it’s number two, I can almost respect it, because that means you’re really good at faking sincerity, and that’s a gift. But if you’ve honestly convinced yourself that you’re fighting McGann and Kaminski by making the machine work more efficiently, that’s beyond fucked up. It’s like you’ve created an entirely new level of fuckedupedness that I’ve never even seen before. That’s the difference between you and Kaminski. He’s totally on board with this nightmare. He doesn’t pretend it’s something else just so he can sleep nights.
“So you want to know what I think? I think I don’t like you, and for sure I don’t trust you.
“So, are there any other questions you’d like to discuss, Dr. Nakamura?”
* * *
Thirty-seven arctic minutes later, Riley emerged from Dr. Nakamura’s office to find Henry waiting outside, cradling a heavy brown paper bag under one arm. “Hey, Ready Riley! What’s shakin’?”
“Nothing,” she growled.
“No, that’s not it,” he said. “When I say, ‘What’s shakin’,’ you’re supposed to say, Ain’t nothin’ shakin’ but the leaves on the trees.”
“Ain’t nothin’ shakin’ but the leaves on the trees.”
“There you go. Much better.”
He led her down a row of cubicles toward the elevator. “I just got back from running some errands, thought I’d swing by and take you back to your room. How’d it go with Dr. Nakamura?”
She shot him a glance that promised biblical degrees of pain and retribution if he pursued the question even an inch further.
He caught the look and laughed as the elevator doors opened. “You ought to trademark those glares,” he said. “My aunt Rose used to call that one ‘giving somebody the skunk-eye.’ Said if you weren’t careful, your face would freeze like that and you’d be skunk-eyed for life.”
“So, you gonna ask what’s in the bag?” he said once they were inside.
“If it’s a meat cleaver, we need to head back downstairs for ten minutes.”
“Nope, afraid not. It’s better. And it’s for you.”
He pushed the Stop button. “Rather do this in private,” he said, and handed her the bag. “I went by the library, and they had just about everything on your list.”
Her mood improved instantly. “You’re my hero,” she said, flipping through the books until she hit the only one she’d really wanted. Yes!
He pushed the button and the elevator began to rise again. “The librarian told me to tell you that they have to go back in the same condition you got them in,” he said. “So don’t let ’em out of your sight, because if whoever keeps tearing up the magazines does the same here, it’s coming out of my salary.”
“I’ll take care of them,” she said. “Thanks.”
“No problem. And if that book at the bottom of your list helps you understand our special guest, let me know, okay? Might be a raise in it for me. Maybe I can even pay off that Snickers habit of yours,” he said with a wink.
Dr. Munroe’s right. The staff sees everything, hears everything, knows everything.
Then she turned her attention back to the book cover.
FRANKENSTEIN
or, the modern prometheus
Mary Shelley