The doctor nodded his head slightly. "But perhaps, you could remind me, then what day of the week it is…"

"What day?"

"Yes."

"Is it important?"

"Let us imagine that it is."

"Are you sure you asked me this earlier?" Francis said, stalling for time. But this simple fact suddenly seemed elusive, as if concealed behind a cloud within him.

"Yes," Doctor Gulptilil said. "I'm quite sure. What day is it?"

Francis thought hard, battling against the anxiety that abruptly crowded past all his other thoughts. Again he paused, hoping that one of the voices might come to his aid, but again, they had fallen silent.

"I believe it is Saturday," Francis said cautiously. He said each word slowly, tentatively.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." But this word fell out of his mouth with little conviction.

"Do you not recall me telling you earlier it was Wednesday?"

"No. That would be a mistake. It is Saturday." Francis could feel his head spinning, as if the doctor's questions were forcing him to run in ever-concentric circles.

"I think not," said the doctor, "But it is of no importance. You will be staying with us for some time, Francis, and we will have another opportunity to speak of these things. I'm certain that in the future you will remember things better."

"I don't want to stay," Francis replied quickly. He could feel a sudden sense of panic, mingling with despair, instantly welling up within him. "I want to go home. Really, I believe they are expecting me, and it is close to dinnertime, and my parents and my sisters, they all want everyone home for dinner. That's the rule in the house, you see. You need to be there by six, hands and face washed clean. No dirty clothes if you've been playing outside. Ready to say grace. We have a blessing before we eat. We always do. It's my job some days to say the blessing. We need to thank God for putting the food on the table. I believe today it's my turn yes, I'm sure of it so I need to be there, and I can't be late."

He could feel tears stinging at his eyes, and he could hear sobs choking some of his words. These things were happening to a mirror image of himself, and not quite him, but himself slightly apart and distant from the real him. He struggled hard to make all these parts of himself come together and focus as one, but it was difficult.

"Perhaps," Doctor Gulptilil said gently, "you might have a question or two for me?"

"Why can't I go home?" Francis coughed the question out between tears.

"Because people are frightened for you, Francis, and because you frighten people."

"What sort of place is this?"

"It's a place where we will help you," the doctor said.

Liar! Liar! Liar!

Doctor Gulptilil looked up at the two attendants and spoke next to them. "Mister Moses, will you and your brother please take Mister Petrel to the Amherst Building. I have written out a scrip for some medication and some additional instructions for the nurses there. He should get at least thirty-six, perhaps more, hours of observation before they consider shifting him into the open ward." He handed the clipboard across to the smaller of the two men flanking Francis, who nodded his response.

"Whatever you say, Doc," the attendant said.

"Sure thing, Doc," his huge partner replied, stepping behind the wheelchair, grasping the handles and rapidly spinning Francis around. The motion made him suddenly dizzy, and he choked back on the sobs that were filling his chest. "Don't you be so scared, Mister Petrel. Things gonna be okay soon enough. We're gonna take good care of you," the large man whispered.

Francis did not believe him.

He was wheeled back through the office, into the waiting room, tears streaming down his cheeks, his hands quivering against the cuffs. He twisted in the chair, trying to get the attention of either the large or the small attendant, his voice cracking with a combination of fear and an unbridled sadness. "Please," he said, piteously, "I want to go home. They're expecting me. That's where I want to be. Please take me home."

The smaller attendant had his face set, as if the pleas coming from Francis were hard for him to hear. He placed his hand on Francis's shoulder and repeated, "You gonna be okay, now, hear me. It's gonna be okay. Shush now…" He spoke as he might to a baby.

Sobs wracked Francis's body, emanating from deep within him. The prim secretary looked up from her seat behind the desk with an impatient and unforgiving look on her face. "Quiet down!" she ordered Francis. He swallowed back another sob, coughing.

As he did so, he looked across the room and saw two uniformed state troopers, wearing gray tunics and blue riding pants above polished knee-high brown boots. They were both strapping, tall, taut pictures of discipline, with close-cropped hair and their curved and cocked officers' hats held stiffly at their sides. Each wore a glistening leather Sam Browne belt, polished to a reflective shine, and a holstered revolver high on their waist. But it was the man that they flanked that quickly attracted Francis's attention.

He was shorter than the troopers, but solidly built. Francis would have guessed his age to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He stood in a languid, relaxed fashion, his hands cuffed in front of him, but the language of his body seemed to diminish the nature of the restraints, rendering them less restrictive and more as if they were merely an inconvenience. He wore a loose-fitting single-piece navy blue jumpsuit with the title mci-boston stitched in yellow above the left hand chest pocket and a pair of old, worn running shoes that were missing their laces. He had longish brown hair, that poked out from beneath the edges of a sweat-stained Boston Red Sox baseball cap, and a two-day shadow of a beard. But what struck Francis first and foremost were the man's eyes, for they darted about, far more alert and observant than the leisurely pose he maintained, taking many things in as rapidly as possible. The eyes carried something deep, which Francis noticed immediately, even through his own anguish. He could not put a word to it instantly, but it was as if the man had seen something immensely, ineffably sad that lurked just beyond the horizon of his vision, so that whatever he saw, or heard or witnessed was colored by this hidden hurt. The eyes came to fix on Francis, and the man managed a small, sympathetic smile, that seemed to speak directly to Francis.

"Are you okay, fella?" he asked. Each word was tinged with a slight Boston-Irish accent. "Are things that rough?"

Francis shook his head. "I want to go home, but they say I have to stay here," he answered. And then piteously, and spontaneously, he asked, "Can you help me, please?"

The man bent down slightly, toward Francis. "I suspect there are more than a few folks here who would wish to go home and cannot. Myself presently included in that category."

Francis looked up at the man. He did not know precisely why, but the calm tones the man used helped to settle him. "Can you help me?" Francis blurted out, repeating himself.

The man smiled, a mingling of insouciance and sadness. "I don't know what I can do," he said, "but I will do what I can."

"Promise?" Francis asked suddenly.

"All right," the man said. "I promise."

Francis leaned back in the chair, closing his own eyes for a second. "Thank you," he whispered.

The secretary interrupted the conversation with a sharply punctuated command directed to the smaller of the two black attendants. "Mister Moses. This gentleman…" she gestured toward the man in the jumpsuit, "is Mister…" then she hesitated slightly, before continuing seemingly purposefully not using his name,"… the gentleman that we spoke about earlier. The troopers will accompany him in to see the doctor, but please return promptly to escort him to his new accommodations…" this word was spoken with a slight edge of sarcasm,"… as soon as you get Mister Petrel settled over at Amherst. They are expecting him."