"You're always playing, aren't you?" Her voice was flat.

"It's my nature. See, I"

She cut him off. "Let's get started."

He wanted to say something more, but abruptly the helmet switched on.

He felt the familiar sensation of invisible claws hooking onto his scalp and dragging his forehead up under the helmet. There were blind spots in both of his eyes. The doc had explained that the voodoo current she passed through his noodle messed up his octopus areanot octopus amp; occipital amp; something like that.

His concentration began to fail. He was losing focus.

God damn it, he was so close.

He thought he could still do it, could still unbuckle the strap. He only had to hold on to awareness and self-control for another few seconds. He tensed his body, fighting the effects of the current.

"Justin? You seem to be resisting."

"Maybe I don't wanna be your play-toy no more, Doc."

His fingers jabbed the screwdriver against the buckle.

"You're not a toy, and this isn't a game. Now I want you to relax. Take deep, slow breaths."

The buckle shifted, coming partly undone. He strained to finish the job. But his fingers, damp with sweat, couldn't get purchase on the screwdriver.

"This isn't working," Robin said, still watching the screen. "Your muscular tension is high. So is your heart rate. I'm going to boost the appliance's output a little. That should induce relaxation."

"You're gonna force me to cooperate? How's that any different from tying me down for some of the old electric shock treatment?"

That stopped her. "I don't want you to feel I'm mistreating you."

"Well, I do." He'd gotten hold of the buckle at last. "I feel damn mistreated. Doc I'm like Nicholson in Cuckoo's Nest, you know? I'm getting fuckin' lobotomized here."

The tongue of the buckle lifted another few degrees. One more good push, and he could snap it back, unhook himself.

"Actually," she said, "I don't think it will be necessary to adjust the output. You seem to be settling down."

He didn't know where the fuck she got that idea. His heart was still rabbiting in his chest.

He flexed his wrist, jamming the screwdriver against the metal tongue, and the buckle popped open.

His right hand was free.

The rest was easy. Just reach over and unbuckle his left wrist. Had to do it fast, before the doc had time to see what was going down. Even in the dark, she might see that his hand was loose. If she yelled, the hack in the waiting room would come running.

He tried to reach across his body with his free hand amp;

Couldn't do it. Couldn't move.

Oh, hell. The doc had been right, after all. Goddamned machine was taking control of him. He'd fought it off as long as he could.

Now his head was going all ker-blooey, and his eyes were ticking back and forth like he was watching a Ping-Pong game. His hands felt warm and tingly, and his arms were a hundred yards long, his whole body stretching out like an elastic band.

He felt his fingers splay. The screwdriver dropped to the floor, its fall muffled by the carpet.

"Justin, can you hear me?"

The question reached him from far off. He forgot whose voice it was. His mother's, maybe. Or was it Susan Miller, the one with Hamlet in her backpack?

"Justin amp;?"

No, it was the doc. He was in her office, and she was using him as her personal lab rat. There was something he'd been planning to do about that, but he couldn't remember. He was tired amp;

"Justin?"

"Yeah." He heard himself answer, but it was like somebody else was talking and he was only eavesdropping.

"I want you to relax, Justin."

He was relaxed. He was limp.

"I want you to visit the beach. You know the spot I mean."

"I know."

In their first session he'd told her about a place up the coast, around Pismo Beach, where he'd stopped one time. It was so peaceful there.

"I want you to go there. Are you there, Justin?"

"I'm there amp;"

He was, too. That was the weirdness of it. He was really fucking there. Oh, sure, part of him was still in a straight-back chair in an air-conditioned office, but another part of him was sitting cross-legged on the sand watching gulls swoop over the breaking waves. The air was misty, damp, but some sun was getting through. He breathed in the good salt smell of the ocean.

"Just sit on the beach and be at rest."

"At rest," he said, his voice merging with the sigh of the surf.

Something had been worrying him, but he no longer remembered what. Didn't matter anyhow. Nothing mattered.

It was a beautiful day at the beach. He was happy.

He was free.

Robin let Gray adjust to the trancelike state initiated by the bilateral magnetic fields. In the dim light cast by the computer screens, she could see that his eyes were half-closed, his mouth agape. His breathing was slow and regular.

When she thought he was ready, she spoke to him again.

"All right, Justin. Now it's time to leave the beach."

"Like it here amp;" he murmured.

"I know you do, but we have work to do. I want you to go to your parents' apartment, the one on Pine Street. The place where you grew up."

When working with Brand, she had guided him to act as an observer. Gray, less resistant, could relive the experience directly.

"Okay."

"Are you there?"

He nodded.

"Last time, you told me that your father used to punish you. I want you to go to a time when you were punished. Can you do that?"

"Don't wanna."

"Can you?"

A long pause. "Yeah."

"Are you with your father now?"

"I'm with him. I'm with my old man."

"What's he doing?"

"Yelling."

"That's all? Just yelling?"

"He's got amp; it looks like amp; oh, hell, he's got his damn belt off."

"Does he hit you with the belt?"

Snort of derision. "I wish."

"What, then?"

"He uses it to tie me amp;"

"Tie you up?"

"Tie me to amp;"

"To what?"

"The radiator. He ties the belt 'round my waist, hooks it to the radiator. That's just for starters."

"What happens next?"

"My hand."

"What about your hand?"

"My left hand."

"What about your hand, Justin?"

"He puts it on the radiator. He's got his shirt off. It's wrapped over his hand like a glove. He grabs me by the wrist and amp;"

"He presses your hand to the hot radiator?"

Gray winced, feeling it now. "Hurts like a motherfucker. That's what I tell him, them exact wordshurts like a motherfucker."

"What happens when you say that?"

"He says, my old man says, 'Watch your mouth.'"

"And your hand amp;?"

"He's holding it down."

"What's he saying now?"

"He don't want me shoplifting again."

"What did you shoplift?"

"Don't remember."

She tried again. "What did you shoplift?"

"Some fuckbook. Penthouse, Hustler, some shit like that. Would've paid for it, but they won't sell it to you if you're not eighteen."

"How old are you?"

"Thirteen. Christ, my hand hurts."

"Is this the first time he's hurt you?"

"Fuck, no."

"First time with the radiator?"

"No."

She remembered something he'd said in a previous session. "You told me about a baseball bat amp;"

"That's later. For taking his car without asking. He tries to bust my kneecaps. But he misses me, 'cause he's drunk."

She returned to the radiator incident. "Is he drunk now?"

"Maybe he's had a snort, I can't tell. Doesn't matter."

"Why doesn't it matter?"

"He's like this all the time. Drunk or sober, makes no difference."

"Has he let go of your hand?"

"By now amp; yeah."

"Badly burned?"