He could tell Dr. Engel had heard about his indiscretion handling the book.

When she walked into his room, her mouth was set into a straight line. She had a manila folder open in front of her, something he had often wondered about but never seen--his file. Dr. Engel cleared her throat and marked a spot on the page with her finger. 

She began reading aloud. "Brett expressed an extreme amount of anxiety when confronted with the book. When pressed, he said that it had to do with his mother and painful memories." She looked up. "What's this about, Brett? Your mother is still alive. We talked about her just a few weeks ago." 

He was caught in his lie.

How was he going to get out of this without describing his immense fear during the period of darkness? It was going to invite Dr. Engel to a new level of his crazy. He would be in the hospital forever if she heard about what was really going on in his head.

"What was with the washcloth?" she demanded, letting the cover of the folder flip closed.

"I can't explain it," he responded truthfully. "The book just felt... dirty." He fell back on the word which seemed to fit in better with what had happened with the washcloth rather than his certainty that, if he were to touch the book itself, something bad would happen. It would corrode his skin, rot him to the core. 

"But it didn't feel that way when you started reading it?"

"No, in fact I was really into it." He recalled his infatuation from the day before.

"What changed?"

You mean, when all the damn lights went out and I was the only one who noticed? Yeah, better not go there. Crazytown.

"Brett, you have to tell me the truth. Or I can't help you."

His stomach was roiling. The possibility of revealing what was really happening inside him meant admitting it was true. Or that what his mind construed as reality actually wasn't. That was the most terrifying part about it. But what if she could help him? Wouldn't that be better than ever going through that torture again?

"I thought that... the book would hurt me." He wanted to reach out and catch the words in midair, take them back, put them inside where no one could judge him for saying or believing in them. He risked a glance at her face but couldn't interpret what she was thinking. 

Better never play poker with her. 

"Hurt you... how? Physically?"

"No, not physically," he sighed. "Mentally, I guess. It felt like the book had bad intentions for me."

"And how do you feel about it now?"

"Well, now I guess I just feel silly. Like I made a big fuss over nothing."

"So now you think the book didn't mean to hurt you?" She was poking at him, testing where it might still hurt. The problem was that he was caught in an in between place. Saying the words allowed had made him realize how ridiculous they sounded, and that took away a little of their power. But if she made him grab the book off the shelf right now, he didn't know if he could do it. His hesitance to answer prompted her to open his file again and scribble a note at the bottom.

"Brett, I'd hoped that the ketamine trial would go better for you. But there is clearly still some darkness in your thoughts. In a few situations when the first dose didn't work, we repeated it and had good success. I still think this could be the solution."

At that point, he was willing to agree with just about anything to get out of the conversation. 

"I could get you in after lunch," she said. 

He nodded.

Once the doctor had left, he felt thirstier than he ever had before. It was like the words, his truth, had ripped up his vocal chords on the way out. He needed something to soothe his throat.

The common area was empty as he walked through it. The other patients must have been tired after all the bracelet-making. When he entered the pantry, however, he realized that he wouldn't get his drink in peace. Lauren was there, peeling an orange. He remembered the way she'd looked at him with the book, and all he felt was shame. 

"Hey," he said gruffly, grabbing a paper cup and avoiding eye contact. 

"Brett. I was wondering where you were. Is everything okay?"

Ice cubes. Cold water. Down the hatch.

"Not really."

"Well, no, I don't think anyone here is okay. That's not what I meant. For in here, are you okay?"

Another drink. "I just kinda freaked out."

Lauren was quiet. She reached over and grasped his arm. "Brett," she murmured. "Are you doing the trial?"

This got his attention. She knew about the trial? The only way she could know is if they were doing the same thing to her. His mind filled with questions. What did she think of it? Had she freaked out at all? Was it true that he could have a more positive experience if he tried again? 

She squeezed his arm and smiled. "I think we should have a talk."