He shuffled around a little more, found a coffee mug, dumped the contents, and filled it with water from the tap. He drank and refilled it twice before pulling up a chair at the table.

He dug through the litter to tear off the corner of a brown grocery bag, then used it to draw a map.

"It's easy to get all twisted around back here," he explained, penciling heavy dark lines to signify roads.

"This is north." He pointed to the top of the paper. "Here's the road you came in on that runs along the sloughs."

The water seemed to have revived him a little. His movements weren't as sluggish, and his voice seemed stronger.

"Here's the Y where you turned right. Remember that spot?"

"My directions said to turn right. Was I supposed to go left?" She lifted the glass to her mouth and took a swallow. Then another.

He stared at her much longer than was socially polite. "No," he finally said.

"No?" She didn't get it.

That's when she became aware of a strange tingling on her lips and in her mouth. The tingling in her mouth created a searing heat that rushed down her esophagus to her belly.

Sweat erupted from every pore, and in a matter of seconds a rivulet was trailing along her spine, soaking into the waistband of her pants.

From what seemed an observer's position, she was aware of the glass slipping from her fingers. She tried to clench her hand tighter, but her body failed her.

The glass shattered to the floor.

It was hard to breathe; her lungs didn't want to expand.

She imagined lifting a hand to her throat, but was unable to do so. /

The floor shifted beneath her.

The room slanted. And kept slanting… until her face was smashed against the gritty wood of the kitchen floor, her body pressed down, seeming ten times its weight.

It was such a relief to be horizontal, such a relief to be over the fall.

Her eyes were wide open. She tried to blink but couldn't.

LaRue-because of course the disheveled man in front of her had to be LaRue-arranged himself beside her on the floor so he could look into her open eyes. With his face inches away, he said, "I've found that the best way to learn about TTX is to experience it firsthand."

She was going to die.

How strange.

For some reason, she found the whole situation hysterically funny. She would have laughed if it had been physically possible. A shame, because she needed a good laugh.

"I'm not what you expected, am I?" LaRue asked. "Not what you expected from a Harvard graduate? That's okay. Don't feel bad. I've never been what anybody expected. I don't take it personally."

She knew people were often chameleons, ever changing, never what they seemed, even to themselves. She would have liked to apologize, explain that it wasn't his appearance or circumstances that had thrown her; it was his age. She'd been expecting someone much older.

"Close your eyes," he said, still on the floor beside her.

He reached out and forcefully pushed her eyelids down with his fingertips.

"Don't fight it. Fighting makes it worse. Just close your eyes and enjoy the ride. That's it," he said in a soothing voice, coaching her, guiding her through new terrain. Her own Timothy Leary. "There you go. That's better, isn't it? Much better. The first time's the toughest because you don't know what to expect, and because you're scared shitless. Kinda like sex," he said with a laugh. "The second time will be better. You'll see."

Second time?

She felt something against the side of her face, a sensation she couldn't quite place, then realized he was stroking her numb cheek as he mumbled soothing nonsense, whispering words meant to calm and hypnotize as if trying to talk her down from a bad acid trip.

It worked.

She began to relax.

She began to float.

Float out of her body, up, up to the ceiling, where she could see herself on the floor with James LaRue beside her, one arm looped around her head, his fingers stroking her cheek.

"It's like playing dead, isn't it?" he whispered seductively.

She was looking down on them both, but his words were tickling her ear, stirring her hair. "As close as a living person can get to the real thing."

He was insane. Completely, totally insane.

"Let go," he coaxed. "You have to let go."

She let go.