"I guess," Chris sighed, dejected. "But I'll tell you the truth, doc, I don't understand how her whole personality could be changed."

    "In temporal lobe, that's extremely common, and can last for days or even weeks. It isn't rare to find destructive and even criminal behavior. There's such a big change, in fact, that two or three hundred years ago people with temporal lobe disorders were often considered to be possessed by a devil."

    "They were what?"

    "Taken over by the mind of a demon. You know, something like a superstitious version of split personality."

    Chris closed her eyes and lowered her forehead onto a fist. "Listen, tell me something good," she murmured.

    "Well, now, don't be alarmed. If it is a lesion, in a way she's fortunate. Then all we have to do is remove the scar."

    "Oh, swell."

    "Or it could be just pressure on the brain. Look, I'd like to have some X-rays taken of her skull. There's a radiologist here in the building, and perhaps I can get him to take you right away. Shall I call him?"

    "God, yes; go ahead; let's do it."

    Klein called and set it up. They would take her immediately, they told him.

    He hung up the phone and began writing a prescription. "Room twenty-one on the second floor. Then I'll probably call you tomorrow or Thursday. I'd like a neurologist in on this. In the meantime, I'm taking her off the Ritalin. Let's try her on Librium for a while."

    He ripped the prescription sheet from the pad and handed it over. "I'd try to stay close to her, Mrs.

    MacNeil. In these walking trance states, if that's what it is, it's always possible for her to hurt herself. Is your bedroom close to hers?"

    "Yeah, it is."

    "That's fine. Ground floor?"

    "No, second."

    "Big windows in her bedroom?"

    "Well, one. What's the deal?"

    "Well, I'd try to keep it closed, maybe even put a lock on it. In a trance state, she might go through it. I once had a---"

    "---Patient," Chris finished with a trace of a wry, weary smile.

    He grinned. "I guess I do have a lot of them, don't I?"

    "A couple."

    She propped her face on her hand and leaned thoughtfully forward. "You know, I thought of something else just now."

    "And what was that?"

    "Well, like after a fit, you were saying, she'd right away fall dead asleep. Like on Saturday night. I mean, didn't you say that?"

    "Well, Yes." Klein nodded. "That's right."

    "Well, then, how come those other times she said that her bed was shaking, she was always wide awake?"

    "You didn't tell me that."

    "Well, its so. She looked just fine. She'd just come to my room and then ask to get in bed with me."

    "Bed wetting? Vomiting?"

    Chris shook her head. "She was fine."

    Klein frowned and gently chewed on his lip for a moment. "Well, let's look at those X-rays," he finally told her.

    Feeling drained and numb, Chris shepherded Regan to the radiologist; stayed at her side while the X-rays were taken; took her home. She'd been strangely mute since the second injection, and Chris made an effort now to engage her.

    "Want to play some Monopoly or somethin'?"

    Regan shook her head and then stared at her mother with unfocused eyes that seemed to be retracted into infinite remoteness. "I'm feeling sleepy," Regan said in a voice that belonged to the eyes. Then, turning, she climbed up the stairs to her bedroom.

    Must be the Librium, Chris reflected as she watched her. Then at last she sighed and went into the kitchen. She poured some coffee and sat down at the breakfast-nook table with Sharon.

    "How'd it go?"

    "Oh, Christ!"

    Chris fluttered the prescription slip onto the table. "Better call and get that filled," she said, and then explained what the doctor had told her. "If I'm busy or out, keep a real good eye on her, would you, Shar? He---" Dawning. Sudden. "That reminds me."

    She got up from the table and went up to Regan's bedroom, found her under the covers and apparently asleep.

    Chris moved to the window and tightened the latch. She staffed below. The window, facing out from the side of the house, directly overlooked the precipitous public staircase that plunged to M Street far below.

    Boy, I'd better call a locksmith right away.

    Chris returned to the kitchen and added the chore to the list from which Sharon sat working, gave Willie the dinner menu, and returned a call from her agent.

    "What about the script?" he wanted to know.

    "Yeah, it's great, Ed; let's do it," she told him. "When's it go?"

    "Well, your segment's in July, so you'll have to start preparing right away."

    "You mean now?"

    "I mean now. This isn't acting, Chris. You're involved in a lot of the preproduction. You've got to work with the set designer, the costume designer, the makeup artist, the producer. And you'll have to pick a cameraman and a cutter and block out your shots. C'mon, Chris, you know the drill."

    "Oh, shit."

    "You've got a problem?"

    "Yeah, I do; I've got a problem."

    "What's the problem?"

    "Well, Regan's pretty sick."

    "Oh, I'm Sony. What's wrong?"

    "They don't know yet. I'm waiting for some tests. Listen, Ed, I can't leave her."

    "So who says to leave her?"