fireman lunges frantically to catch him. He gets one of Ken’s outreached hands, and clutches it. Firemen have gloves, big rubber ones, so it must be the gloves that are slipping in the sweat, not Ken’s hand. Ken sways perilously as the fireman hooks his feet in the rungs of the ladder and hauls on his hand, Tara mimicking both Ken’s cries for help and the fireman’s reassurances.
The grownups are silent, watching. Until Tara’s mother clears her throat and says, carefully, “Tara? Did you hear the question?”
“One of the other girls,” Tara says, letting Ken rock back and forth a little, hands slipping. She watches him carefully. Maybe if the fireman slides a little higher, ladder rungs gouging his tummy, he can keep his grip. Oh, no, gasps Ken. Don’t worry, I’ve got you! cries the fireman.
“Which girl?”
Tara shrugs. She won’t remember. That’s not a lie, and they can’t make her remember, either. The fireman hauls Ken up once his predicament stops being interesting.
Tara prefers a happy ending.
“Tara,” Mom says, quietly, “she could be in a lot of danger. You have to tell us.”
It takes a long time. But eventually, she does.
I barely knew Jodi Carter. She was older than Tara, twelve or thirteen, and they hadn’t been room-mates. But they’d spent time together, in the common room or the girls’ bathroom.
I wondered how many other girls Jodi had taught the fainting game. At least, from what Dr. al-Mansoor said, it didn’t seem like she was having the hallucinations. I was guiltily glad it wasn’t my job to answer either of those questions.
Dr. al-Mansoor and I had a hasty conference while Tara banged around a little more with Barbie dolls and firetrucks. My worry that Tara was the only child to report some sort of hallucination after receiving the implant was enough to make my hands cold.
We got Tara checked in—back in her old room, in fact—and Dr. alMansoor put her under observation. No restraints, but she’d be under fifteen-minute checks, though the room had a one-way window so she’d at least have the illusion of privacy.
I argued for the right to sleep in the waiting room. Dr. al-Mansoor countered with an offer of her office couch. Tara and I went home to fetch her pajamas and get her some lunch while Dr. al-Mansoor and Mrs. Carter had a long talk with Jodi, who was already checked in for observation of her apparent hallucinations.
Afterwards, Dr. al-Mansoor and I sat and drank more coffee—worse coffee, this, from the staff room pot, lightened with artificial creamer and too sweet because that was the only way it was drinkable—out of chipped mugs, and waited while one of the clinic staff got Tara settled in. She was furious that I’d told her she had to stay, and after she had exhausted herself on a temper tantrum and two sulks, I decided it was just as well if I gave her a little time alone to get the leftover wrath out of her system. At least Tara wasn’t a kid who held grudges.
“I didn’t know about this fainting game thing,” Dr. al-Mansoor said, blowing over her coffee.
“It’s not new.” Pediatric psychiatry isn’t my specialty, but you hear things, pick up around the edges in the journals. “Like inhalant abuse. Every generation figures it out, or anyway some of them do. The question is—”
She nodded. “And then there’s the whole issue of whether the implant is causing hallucinations.”
“Only when she’s on the verge of unconsciousness.”
“And a hypnagogic state doesn’t do it. Sleep’s no good. It’s got to be hypoxia.”
My turn to stare into my coffee. “Apparently. What do you think of the character of the hallucinations?”
“Some alien entity trying to communicate with her? It’s a common marker for schizophrenia.”
“But that’s the only symptom she’s got. No mood swings, she’s obviously rational—”
Dr al-Mansoor smiled. “Odd, isn’t it?” And then she cocked her head to one side as if she was
The grownups are silent, watching. Until Tara’s mother clears her throat and says, carefully, “Tara? Did you hear the question?”
“One of the other girls,” Tara says, letting Ken rock back and forth a little, hands slipping. She watches him carefully. Maybe if the fireman slides a little higher, ladder rungs gouging his tummy, he can keep his grip. Oh, no, gasps Ken. Don’t worry, I’ve got you! cries the fireman.
“Which girl?”
Tara shrugs. She won’t remember. That’s not a lie, and they can’t make her remember, either. The fireman hauls Ken up once his predicament stops being interesting.
Tara prefers a happy ending.
“Tara,” Mom says, quietly, “she could be in a lot of danger. You have to tell us.”
It takes a long time. But eventually, she does.
I barely knew Jodi Carter. She was older than Tara, twelve or thirteen, and they hadn’t been room-mates. But they’d spent time together, in the common room or the girls’ bathroom.
I wondered how many other girls Jodi had taught the fainting game. At least, from what Dr. al-Mansoor said, it didn’t seem like she was having the hallucinations. I was guiltily glad it wasn’t my job to answer either of those questions.
Dr. al-Mansoor and I had a hasty conference while Tara banged around a little more with Barbie dolls and firetrucks. My worry that Tara was the only child to report some sort of hallucination after receiving the implant was enough to make my hands cold.
We got Tara checked in—back in her old room, in fact—and Dr. alMansoor put her under observation. No restraints, but she’d be under fifteen-minute checks, though the room had a one-way window so she’d at least have the illusion of privacy.
I argued for the right to sleep in the waiting room. Dr. al-Mansoor countered with an offer of her office couch. Tara and I went home to fetch her pajamas and get her some lunch while Dr. al-Mansoor and Mrs. Carter had a long talk with Jodi, who was already checked in for observation of her apparent hallucinations.
Afterwards, Dr. al-Mansoor and I sat and drank more coffee—worse coffee, this, from the staff room pot, lightened with artificial creamer and too sweet because that was the only way it was drinkable—out of chipped mugs, and waited while one of the clinic staff got Tara settled in. She was furious that I’d told her she had to stay, and after she had exhausted herself on a temper tantrum and two sulks, I decided it was just as well if I gave her a little time alone to get the leftover wrath out of her system. At least Tara wasn’t a kid who held grudges.
“I didn’t know about this fainting game thing,” Dr. al-Mansoor said, blowing over her coffee.
“It’s not new.” Pediatric psychiatry isn’t my specialty, but you hear things, pick up around the edges in the journals. “Like inhalant abuse. Every generation figures it out, or anyway some of them do. The question is—”
She nodded. “And then there’s the whole issue of whether the implant is causing hallucinations.”
“Only when she’s on the verge of unconsciousness.”
“And a hypnagogic state doesn’t do it. Sleep’s no good. It’s got to be hypoxia.”
My turn to stare into my coffee. “Apparently. What do you think of the character of the hallucinations?”
“Some alien entity trying to communicate with her? It’s a common marker for schizophrenia.”
“But that’s the only symptom she’s got. No mood swings, she’s obviously rational—”
Dr al-Mansoor smiled. “Odd, isn’t it?” And then she cocked her head to one side as if she was
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