The Great Shift: The Empty Place Inside, Part 2 Of 2 free porn video

The Great Shift: The Empty Place Inside by BlueshifTG Part 2 The young woman opened her eyes. What she saw was all white, slowly resolving into different shades of white, and two corners. That was the extent of it: three walls. Part of it was different, yellow, that's it, with some sort of pattern--a curtain. On the other side, a door. In the corner, high, a box. A mouth, a speaker, no, a camera; a television, a gray eye with a spot of red glowing in the lower corner. And there, white, a rectangle, starting in the middle and stretching toward--toward something, the thing that was seeing the walls, me, I'm a "me". This, then, was the self, the thing facing the world; the world was three walls. All white. Mostly white. So bright. Her eyes closed. When her eyes opened again, a nurse was in the room, looking at something off to the side. The nurse turned, saw the eyes, and said, "Oh good, you're awake! Will you eat?" "Um," the young woman said. "OK." The sound was like the nurse's. It seemed airy, like it was settling on her from a little above her. A slight tingle above the eyes, a pressure on the sides--the ears, a kind of rubbing on the throat. A voice. She realized then that she was something like the nurse. A head with eyes, ears, mouth. The rest--that must be the rectangle leading up to her head. Lumpy. That wasn't the body, it was something covering it. The body... what's the body... she realized there was something behind her, the world didn't start with her; there was a little warmth, pressure, something underneath holding her up. She started looking for her arms and hands and legs and feet. Nothing was moving. The nurse returned and placed a tray stand over her waist and said, "Want me to raise you?" "OK," she said. The nurse pressed a button. The thing under her back hummed and lifted her--well, not all of her; she was starting to feel the legs, because as the waist moved they did not. Her arms were limp at her sides, and she felt them tugging on her shoulders. "There, that's better," the nurse said, moving the tray up. "Can you do it yourself?" "Sure," she said. She went to lift her arms but only got a faint tensing of some muscles. She could imagine them moving, but they did not. She felt a coolness on her arm, her elbow, inside. There was an IV, and she looked at the clear liquid flowing through it and followed it up to the bag partly full of clear liquid, and wondered if that was her spirit flowing into the body. "Any luck?" the nurse asked. "I see." She pulled up a stool and leaned over the young woman. She opened the plastic containing the spoon, peeled the cover off the food tray, and scooped up a small mouthful of mashed potatoes. "Open up." The young woman started to speak but instead got food. She managed to close her mouth on it and even chew a little. She was getting more coherent and in fact understood fairly well what was happening but still couldn't move. "Ready for some meat?" the nurse asked. "OK," the young woman said. The food was bland, but it was as if she'd never tasted anything before. The nurse produced a small paper cup, the kind you use for ketchup in fast food restaurants, containing two oblong white pills with a red stripe in the middle. "You have visitors. Would you like to see them?" "OK." The nurse stepped out, and then five people came in. "Hi," she said, "Laine." The tall girl with strawberry blond hair smiled. "You know who we are?" "Sure. Laine, Jake, K... K... Ca..." she almost had it. "Car, Carol! And... Alan?" They all looked at each other. "Pete," he said. She frowned. Right, Pete. Seemed odd, but yes, that was Pete. But who was Alan? She asked the question. "Alan is my brother," Pete answered. "We all grew up together. I know I look like him; this was his body before we switched." "Switched?" She tried to think it through. Is that what happened to me? Who was I before? Is that why things seemed a little off, a little wrong? Someone else's body? "She doesn't remember the Shift," Caroline said quietly. "Do you know your name?" Pete asked. "Sure, of course. It's..." She paused. She realized with a sinking feeling that in fact she didn't know her name. "Ka. Ku. Kwa. Quiz. Quiz." "Yes," Laine said. "Quiz. That's what we call you. What's your first name?" This puzzled her. There were several names, and they all seemed more or less right, first one, then another. "Lar... La... Link? Lurt? Kint..." she just didn't quite have it. "Kurt. Linda. Kurt?" She saw confirmation in their faces. "Kurt." She lay there, tasting the name, testing its flavor. "Yes," Pete said. "It's Kurt, but what was the other name you said?" "Linda." That also tasted familiar. "But... a boy's name and a girl's name? I'm... not a boy? I mean, I'm not a girl?" Saying that gave her the same dark feeling she had when seeing the shape under the sheets, when feeling her chest as the bed rose. It wasn't much; she was still mostly numb, just starting to sense her body. "Um, yes," Laine said. "It's complicated," Caroline said. The young woman--Quiz--tried to move, a hand, a leg, anything; but all she could do was roll her head a little side to side. She winced, frustrated. At this point the fifth person spoke. She was a woman with short salt- and-pepper hair, taller than Laine, older, maybe fifty. "How do you feel?" "Numb," she said. "Tired. Trapped." She saw the reactions to that, and they made her feel a little scared. "You need to rest, but we'll help you through this. You'll be back on your feet soon." Quiz hoped so. Whatever that meant, it sounded wonderful. She felt a warmth along one leg and heard a splashing sound, but there was no wetness. She caught an expression on Pete's face that made her feel embarrassed. She leaned her head back as much as she could and closed her eyes. "We'd better let her sleep," she heard the older woman say. "No, I'm fine," she said, but her eyes stayed closed. She was able to move her hands now, and her left arm some; her right arm only moved below the elbow, and the upper part made something clamp onto her mind. It was pain, though dulled like all her experiences. She was injured but also sedated. She could wiggle her toes. The doctor came in with a clipboard in his hand. He was somewhere late forties, dark hair in a Seventies part, wearing a blue shirt and tie under the white doctor's coat. He had a kindly expression. "Well, Linda, I've got you on Dilantin and it's therapeutic," he said. "I'm Doctor Wizen," he added as an afterthought. That sounded like a good thing. "I can't move much. What happened?" He set down the clipboard. "You had several tonic-clonic episodes. Seizures. You aren't paralyzed; your muscles are just tired. You'll be fine after a few days of rest and food. "Now, grab my hands. Squeeze with your left hand. Good. Now with your right. Good." He took out a pen light and shined it in her eyes. "Follow my finger? Good, good." He stood. "Now, lift your right hand. High as you can." She winced. It hurt along the upper arm and shoulder. It would not move above the elbow. "You have a strained tendon. Injuries tend to happen during grand mal seizures. Your left knee also is injured. Nothing broken, though." She took in the news feeling sad and frustrated. "I have you on Dilantin now, but your mother--that is, your body's mother--confirmed that you were taking Lamictal. I'd like to switch you to that, but we'll wait a few weeks to see that you're stable, and we'll talk about side effects. "Do you know who you are?" "I'm Linda," she said, "or Kurt. Some of both, I guess. More Kurt. Linda feels like... a shirt I put on." "Hm," he said neutrally. "Well, you seem to have retained your identity. We'll let your friends in here so you can talk to them more. "Now, more importantly, I'm going to ask you a question. Don't answer. You need to think about it, and when you do, I'll refer you to another doctor to talk about it." "OK," she said. "Why do you drink so much?" "I do?" Still neutral, but with the beginnings of a paternal smile, he said, "Talk to your friends about it, but I strongly recommend counseling." "Is that why I had a seizure?" "You had seizures," he said, "because you weren't taking your medication." She couldn't really reach with her right hand, but she felt her breasts with her left. Gooey. Springy, if she pressed and released. If she lifted and dropped, they fell in a triple movement before settling: BOUNCE squish slosh. She felt the squishes on the top of the breast more than on the bottom, and the sloshes on the sides. The bounce was enough to jiggle the skin on her shoulder and neck over her collarbone. The bounce was violent and made the bottom of the nipple hurt. Weird. Touching the nipple seemed rough, and it made a small ball of cotton appear between her eyes. This isn't right, she thought. I never wanted to be a girl. Somebody stuck me in this body. I'm sure I didn't choose to do it. Didn't Pete say it wasn't a choice? Laine had promised to talk to him about it. Apparently she also was a guy in a girl's body. The nurse came in and asked how she was doing. "Better. I can move my right leg. Probably the left one too, except it hurts too much." "That will take a while. But if you're ready, we can get you out of that bed for a few minutes. Would you like that?" "Oh, yes," she said. "More than anything." "First, we'll have to remove the catheter." "What?" "You couldn't take care of that while you were unconscious. It's normal for patients like you, who just sleep all the time." She moved to the foot of the bed and pulled back the covers. The young woman's face felt hot. "How long have I been here?" She felt the tube move against her leg, the nurse bump the bed, something squick her inside. "You were admitted from the ER Saturday afternoon," the nurse said. Suddenly, something she didn't know was there slid out of her, smooth as butter, not a particularly good feeling, leaving a sensation of coldness and being exposed. The nurse wiped her and she jumped, feeling her flesh quiver. The touch defined that area for her, smooth, soft, slicing; an uninterrupted path from her belly button to her back; a direct line to the butterflies; it was like a sensation that should be at a comfortable distance but was right on her. It was a very vulnerable place, and her right leg instinctively moved in, her lower back trying to retreat. "Don't try to get up yet," the nurse said. "First let's put the knee brace on." She realized her left knee was wrapped, and that was making it stiff. The nurse tightened the brace on top of the wrap, then moved to the other side of the bed. "And over here, the sling." Quiz gasped as the nurse lifted her right arm. She clenched her teeth, frustrated, and gestured with her left hand. She was able to lift her head a bit, but the nurse had to help to get the sling over her neck. "Are you ready now?" "OK," said Quiz. "Prabha, are you ready?" The nurse was looking out the door. "Coming," a male voice answered in a round, lilting accent. Dressed as an orderly, the burly Hispanic man came over to Quiz's left side. Quiz frowned. The name didn't seem to fit. "Put your left arm around my neck," Prabha said. The nurse was standing behind the head of the bed. The orderly put his arms under Quiz's knees and upper back, then lifted her. She tightened her grip, or tried to, grimacing at the pain in her knee. She felt tiny. Weak. A helpless little girl. Damn it. Her eyes were tearing. The nurse guided her from her right, helping to support. Together, they carried her to an armless chair and sat her down. "How do you feel?" the orderly asked. "Light-headed," she said, though in truth she was genuinely dizzy. Everything was so bright. She leaned back in the chair, shifting her weight to her right hip so she could stretch the left leg, anything so that it wouldn't be bent. That hurt. She felt her backside deform under the pressure, bunching up on the right and hanging loose on the left. She closed her eyes and took deep breaths, feeling her ribs pushing against her breasts from the inside. She was not going to sleep anymore, that was a promise. Everything felt flaccid--her chest, her hips, her biceps, her thighs, her cheeks. At least the catheter was gone. But that meant-- She couldn't even go to the bathroom without help. "So," Pete said. "What do you want to talk about?" Quiz was sitting up in the bed, feeling a little stronger. Her ears were still ringing from the MRI scan that morning. "How's my... um." She held her left hand out flat, raised and lowered it. "Paper thing, goes up and down?" Pete and Laine glanced at each other. "Stocks?" Laine suggested. "Stocks," Quiz said. "That's it." "We really don't know," Laine said. "Would you like someone from work to call you or come visit?" Pete asked. "OK," Quiz said. "Do you have someone's number, maybe in your cell phone?" "Yeah," she answered. "Sure." But she didn't know whose. "Here," Laine said, picking up the cell phone from the table by the armless chair. A few of Linda's personal effects were in the room. "I'll read from your address book." Quiz recognized many of the names, or at least thought she should. When Laine got to "Jerry", Quiz said that would do. "Is that how I got here?" Quiz asked. "Jerry brought me?" "Actually," Pete said, sounding surprised, "someone called me. Apparently you had my number called 'In case of emergency'." "I.C.E.," Laine prodded. "That was after someone at the club called 911," continued Pete. "You came here in an ambulance." Quiz just nodded. Everything sounded equally, vaguely familiar. "Well," the nurse said, "this is it. You're free to go." "Great," Quiz said, looking at the crutches. She started to rise. "Hold on, there, Prabha will be here in a moment." The orderly arrived with a wheelchair. "But," Quiz said, "I don't need that." "All ICU patients are discharged in a wheelchair. Relax. You can take the crutches with you." She felt a little embarrassed being driven through the halls, but not too much; it was a hospital. Behind each closed door some stranger was experiencing an unknown horror. She'd been through hers, and now she was all right, or would be as soon as she healed. Prabha parked her in the waiting room. She had expected to be doing something, but they just left her there. After a while Pete and Laine came in. "Hey," she said. "What's up?" "Not much," Pete said. "How about yourself?" She grinned and gestured. "Never better." Laine said, "Mrs. Green is filling out your paperwork." "I wondered what was going on." "Oh, you know how it is with anything medical," Laine said. "It will take a while." "So," Pete said, taking a chair next to her. "Are you ready to go?" Quiz thought for a moment. "Actually, I think I'd better stay with someone tonight. I might not be ready to be home alone yet." "Oh, we wouldn't let you be alone yet," Pete said. "We talked it over, and Mrs. Green will take you to her house for now." Laine added, "My apartment is on the second floor, and Pete doesn't have a spare bed." Pete grinned. "Trust me, you don't want to sleep on my couch." "I did that once," Laine said, unconsciously rubbing her lower back. "Mrs. Green has a ranch house." Quiz looked up. "With cows?" Laine stifled a laugh. "Not a house on a ranch. Just a one-storey house. No stairs. And she has a guest room with a real bed, probably nicer than any of us have." "She's a grownup," Pete said, laughing. "What about my car?" "Oh." Laine looked a little guilty. "I know you don't like anyone driving it, but I did. We took it to your place and left it in the garage." She held up her hands. "Not a scratch, I promise!" Quiz smiled. "That sounds fine." "Ah, here comes Mrs. Green." "Um," Quiz wondered, "does she have a name?" Laine frowned. "That's all she would give us." The older woman with salt-and-pepper hair knelt in front of her. "Are you ready to get out of that chair?" "You bet." Pete and Mrs. Greene each took an arm. Laine readied the crutches. "Just one," the older lady said. "She can't use the right arm." They lifted her to her feet, and Laine moved in. Quiz got the crutch under her arm. "Ow!" she complained as the pad and stilt pinched the edge of her breast. She was wearing the hospital gown with no bra. Laine saw her face. "Your clothes," she said, taking a bag from the handles of the wheelchair. "And the rest of your stuff." Quiz's cheeks burned, but she assured herself the gown was fastened in back, and Pete was at her side anyway. Her eyes were squinting in the sunlight as they helped her into Mrs. Green's car. Laine closed the door and waved. "See you in a couple days," Pete said. "Take care of her," Laine said. "I will," the older lady said shortly. Quiz looked around in wonder as she entered Mrs. Green's house. There was furniture, and there were decorations, and she looked from one to another without really registering any of it. The bedroom was off to the right, with a bathroom across the hall. As Mrs. Green opened the door and turned on the light, Quiz gasped. The heavy curtains were drawn on the window, and the sunlight came through the sheer covering. The bed was out of a fairy tale, with a nice wood headboard, a comforter, at least two sheets, and such a number of pillows that she thought there was no room for sleeping. There was an armoir and a vanity, a closet behind bifold louver doors, and a ceiling fan. But everywhere, everywhere, hanging or standing or otherwise on display, there was memorabilia. There were pictures, certificates, ribbons, trophies, parts of costumes, and at least one music box. There was so much it made Quiz a little frightened. Her eyes darted, trying to make sense of a hail of half-thoughts. "Here," Mrs. Green said, dropping the bag on the bed. "You probably want a bath and something fresh to wear." "I have my bag of clothes--" "They need to be washed. There are plenty of things to wear here." The most difficult parts were the hair and the left foot. She could pretty much reach everything else. It helped being fairly compact and flexible. She kept forgetting about injuries and trying to use the right arm or bend the left leg. Her mind was sliding like the shampoo. It burned cold on her scalp. She felt like running away from her head. The soap was liquid. It reminded her of something, but she wasn't sure what. That happened a lot; her memories were slowly getting reconnected. She held her right hand still and lathered against it with the left; held the right hand still and moved the left arm to soap it. She was able to reach most of her left shoulder with her left arm either from the front or the back. Except for the injuries, she was very flexible. Some of the shampoo trickled down her forehead and over her eyebrows. It burned cold. She splashed her face frantically and said, "Aaaargh!" It felt odd, and as familiar as anything else, the way her soapy hands slid across her hairless skin, accelerating and decelerating around curves. The shoulders were corners, and the elbows and feet; but the knees didn't interrupt the curves at all. There was that slight interruption between her legs, as she spread the soap up the inside of one thigh and across to the other. Not quite so smooth crossing it that way as it was front-to-back. The lips halfheartedly tried to kiss her hand as it passed. Scrubbed as much as she could, she drained the tub and then pushed the switch with her foot. She pushed the faucet and said, "aaaargh" again as the shower poured on her, a little colder than she expected. She felt goosebumps all over; her skin was not so smooth now. Shampoo ran over her face and back and collected into rapids in her cleavage. She frantically rubbed and splashed and did anything she could to ease the burning. She grimaced and gritted her teeth and suffered and finally started laughing at herself. She had to roll on her side a bit to get her back rinsed. There was just no way to move without hurting somewhere or other, but she just took that as part of life. Every little activity was going to be a challenge. Challenges were fun. Pain wasn't, of course. And right now her challenge was to get out of the tub. That was definitely going to involve some pain. Feeling proud about having tied a towel around her chest, Quiz hobbled over to the bed, balanced, and sat down heavily. The crutch dropped to the floor. "Let me get that," Mrs. Green said. "Do you want me to help you get dressed?" Quiz really wasn't sure. She felt like she needed help, but something about the woman made her want to be alone. "Um, I think I'll be OK." "All right, then." "One question." "Yes?" "What was in that shampoo?" The older lady laughed. "You must have used the Tea Tree." "It burned and it was cold." "It's good for you," Mrs. Green said, closing the door. Mrs. Green had laid out panties, sweatpants, a sweatshirt and a bra. Quiz found she could be pretty creative with ways to put it all on. It was a long, slow process, and she winced frequently when moving her arm or leg. To get the panties on, she dropped them on the floor, picked them up with the toes of her right foot and, after several tries, hooked them around her left ankle and was able to pull them up far enough for her hand to reach. The right leg wasn't so difficult, but she had to lie back flat to pull them over her hips, crossing her left arm behind her back to pull up the right side. So frustrating and, she knew, very funny to watch. The sweatpants were easier. The sweatshirt wasn't too hard, though she pulled at her injured arm enough to bring tears to her eyes. She had given up on the bra; if it was going to be difficult just to fasten it when it wasn't on her, putting it on was just impossible. She put the towel around her neck, pulled the crutch from behind her where it was lying on the bed, and with great difficulty matched by great determination got herself standing. "There you go," Mrs. Green said. "Your favorite." Apparently she liked fettucine. It had the advantage, Quiz reflected, of being something you could eat with one hand, if you took moderately small bites. Garlic bread also was convenient that way, but the first bite made her eyes pop out of her head. "Oh come on," Mrs. Green said. "It isn't that strong!" "It's very good," Quiz said, smiling. She'd been getting hungrier ever since leaving the hospital, and the first bites only made the hunger grow. "Remember I taught you to make it?" "Um," Quiz said. "Not really. But there's a lot I still don't remember," she added hastily. Every time she looked up, the older lady was looking intently at her, though her plate was emptying as fast as Quiz's. "So," Quiz said nervously, "how are you? What happened to you during this... Shift?" Mrs. Green looked down at her plate, set down her fork and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. "This is my sister's body," she said. "I don't know what happened to her. Your older sister is now a man in Boston, and he's become very distant." "What about... your husband?" "Your father and I have been separated for almost fifteen years. I have no idea about him." Her tone was clipped, but the pitch was a little higher than in her other answers. "What happened to," Quiz gestured at her body. "What do you mean?" "Your daughter. Where is she?" Mrs. Green was silent for several moments. "I don't know," she said shortly. "I haven't heard from... her since the Shift." She suddenly shook her head and smiled distantly. "I guess she's one of the lost. Maybe she ended up far from here, or hasn't been able to get in touch with me for some reason. Maybe she wound up as a baby and is learning to walk." Quiz looked away, took another bite of bread. "So," she asked, "what should I call you?" "I guess 'Mom' won't do, will it?" Her face was sad. "Think of me as your Aunt Wendy. That'll do." "Sure. That'll be great." She sat on the bed for a long time reading the certificates and plaques on the wall. High school honor roll. Eighth grade spelling bee, state level. Quiz bowl. She laughed at that. Some water skiing trophies. Swim team. In random order around the room were pictures and sculptures. Some were obviously from a young child, some said "I love you Mommy", some were pretty sophisticated line drawings, signed in a variety of styles. The more advanced works had a consistent signature, precise and small, capital letters no bigger than lower cases. She finally fell asleep in a complicated posture with pillows propping up her injured arm and leg. She woke with a sore back. The ride to the doctor's office was actually quite pleasant. In response to a few questions, Aunt Wendy talked at length about her daughter's history, hobbies, and awards. How she had discovered her daughter's talent for drawing; how the girl reluctantly gave up water sports because she didn't have the height and reach; the fun they had touring universities. She shied away from anything beyond the start of college. After filling out forms at the check-in desk, Aunt Wendy left, admonishing her to call for any little thing she might want or need. Quiz thanked her. Her name was called a few minutes later. "From now on," Doctor Wizen said, "no alcohol, ever. No illegal drugs. Check with a neurologist or pharmacist on all prescriptions. Be moderate with caffeine and cold medicines, anything over the counter. "There are things you must never do." He held up a finger. "Pilot an airplane, ship, or train. Drive any form of mass transportation. Use firearms of any kind. Be responsible for monitoring critical systems such a medical equipment or power plants. Skydiving and scuba diving. Racing. I strongly recommend against motorcycles." "Drive a car?" she asked. "Can I do that?" "Eventually," he answered. "By state law, not for six months, and then only if I sign a waiver. I'll do that if you have had no episodes, there are no major complications, and you are complying with prescriptions." "Does that mean you'll take away my license?" He smiled. "No, I can't do that. You need your ID. It's actually the insurance company that enforces it by refusing coverage, but that only applies to driving coverages like liability. Comprehensive remains in force. You can be the licensed driver for someone with a learner's permit to drive you around. You just can't be behind the wheel." "Wow. Just six months, though, right?" "If you're doing well. Which brings me to the next point: I'd like to put you on a different medication. In emergencies, we stabalize patients with Dilantin, but it can have a lot of long-term side effects. It's fine for generalized seizures like you have, but so is Lamictal, and most patients report fewer side effects. However, we have to ramp up the dose. It can trigger severe reactions in some patients, but since Mrs. Green told us your body was on it before, there should be no problem. We'll take it slow anyway. Frankly, going off it like you did was dangerous." She nodded. "That made me have seizures." "There may have been other effects. Mild personality changes are possible; you're on Lamictal for seizure control, but it is also used to treat bipolar disorders. You may also experience menstrual irregularities. Did you notice anything you couldn't attribute to the Shift?" "Hm," she said. She didn't have a lot to go on in terms of memories from before the Shift. She put the crutch forward and stepped off the elevator. Pete and Laine were waiting in the lobby. "Hey there!" Pete said. "Welcome back, Linda," said Laine. "Don't call me that," Quiz said. She felt suddenly ill. "Um, OK," Laine said. Quiz looked down. "I'm sorry. I just... don't like that name." "How about Quiz?" Pete asked. "That'll be fine." A smile returned to her face. "Let's go with that for now." "Easy enough," Pete said. "Hungry?" "Sure." It was a little early, but she didn't have any other ideas. "Is the usual place OK?" Laine asked. "Why not?" Quiz looked at her curiously. Laine shrugged. "No reason." "You remember the place, don't you?" Pete asked. She tried. "It's... blurry. I have a lot of images, booths with menus and water glasses and wood walls and decorations, not sure what they are." "Heck, we're not sure what a lot of them are. Chotchkies and gewgaws and widgets." "Oh my," Laine smiled. Quiz didn't get the joke. Clothes, clothes everywhere and not a thing to wear. She felt sick looking in her closet. Leather skirts, severe pantsuits, starched blouses. High heels. She spun on her good leg and opened dresser drawers violently. Colored bras, colored panties. Hose. Where the hell were the blazers and golf shirts and Polo sweaters and slacks? What happened to Kurt's life? Was there nothing left of it in his own apartment? She clenched her eyes shut, holding in moisture. After some deep breaths she opened them and saw the University and fraternity sweatshirts, t-shirts with slogans from companies she'd bought, some ties that didn't go with any of her clothes, though she wore them anyway. Her past was still there, even if she didn't know what some of it was, shoved to the back of the closet. But she needed something for work. It had to be reasonably presentable, business casual. It had to be loose enough for her immobile leg and sturdy enough for the crutch. She looked around the room, and her eyes fell on the cloth skirt she'd worn returning from Aunt Wendy's house. I guess I can wear it two days in a row, she thought. She picked the simplest, and least skimpy, undergarments she could find and tossed them on the bed. Hobbling to the closet, she picked a blue sweater and fell onto the bed to begin the slow, painful process of getting dressed. The crutch would excuse socks and sneakers. "First, I'd like to welcome you back. Are you recovering well?" Jerry was seated across the table from her, wearing a jacket and tie. They didn't often see their boss beyond occasional check-ins; most of their work was with brokers and research, and management had gotten a lot busier after the Shift. This meeting behind closed doors was unusual, and she was uncomfortable. It didn't help that they were two tall men. "I'll be all right," she said. "Good. Glad to hear it." Here it comes, she thought sadly. "I think it's best if you ease back into the game here. Give you a chance to get your mind clear, get focused again." Jerry had used a less charitable phrase. "For now, Jerry will continue to manage your fund, with your input, until you're ready to assume the responsibility. Don't worry," he said, noticing her frustration, "it's just temporary." "We know you're good," Jerry said. "It's just, we have to keep confidence, show that we take our business seriously and only want to be at our peak when handling the company's trust." "Sure. I understand." She surely did understand. "Ah, hello," he said, pulling his flannel shirt closed over the golf shirt, plaid over plaid, sucking in his gut. He was behind her desk, setting a laptop into the docking station. "Hello," she answered. "I've got you set up with your new laptop." He shuffled from behind the desk, passed her awkwardly and stopped near the door. "I saved your files and restored your preferences. The look and feel should be just the same." "Was there a problem with the old one?" She leaned on her crutch. He shrugged. "Time for an upgrade. Sometimes," he looked down, then met her eye, "there's a problem with how some software's installed. The old one isn't usable." "What do you do with those?" "Wipe 'em," he said simply. "If they're still useful, reformat and give them to someone else. Otherwise, the graveyard." She nodded. He was still looking at her, clearly with something more to say. "Computer forensics is an interesting field," he began. "It's amazing how much they can recover. Not from a magnetically wiped drive, of course. But 99% of finding something is someone looking for it. There are always little traces, unused entries in the register, temp files, empty directories..." She really didn't understand what he was getting at. "Anyway, there's no evidence of that sort of thing on this computer." "What sort of thing?" "Oh, you know." He gestured with his hand. "Unencrypted confidential files, illegal software. Anyway, this one will do fine for you, while you're working from home and when the auditors are here." She hobbled on the crutch, making a slow, painful circuit of the car. She inspected every corner for scratches. She had a towel slung over her shoulders. Turning around gently, her weight on her right leg and back braced against the car, she reached up with her left arm and pulled the towel loose. Careful not to lose the crutch or fall, she dropped the towel on the ground. With the crutch, she spread it out as best she could. Using the car and the crutch, she lowered herself down as gently as she could, landing on the towel with a bump and a grunt of pain. She unzipped a fanny pack at her waist and pulled out a cloth and some polish. It was a difficult, clumsy, time-consuming process. She just needed to spend time with the car. Sometimes she hummed to keep down the lump in her throat. She'd gotten used to the cafeteria in the office. She hadn't gotten used to not going out in the evenings as often. The van pool got her to work but didn't service a social life. She looked up from her meal. It would have been a stretch to call it a salad; it all came from the salad bar, but it was mostly toppings like egg and ham and crunchy noodles and cheese. Across the room a flannel- covered form rose. He carried a lunch on a tray, a lunch he'd started but not finished. He came over to her table. "May I?" "Um, sure," she answered, dabbing her mouth with a napkin and gesturing to the chair. "Thanks," he said. He grinned nervously. "I, uh, suddenly had this thought that I didn't want to be Charlie Brown." It took her a moment, but then she gave a short laugh of surprise. "Well," he said, ostensibly turning his attention back to his lunch. "I haven't seen your car in the lot lately." "I'm on medical leave from driving," she said. "Oh. How long?" "Six months." She shook out her red hair. She wasn't wearing earrings. "I can't believe it." He smiled nervously. "Well, if you ever need a ride... or an errand..." She smiled back at him. "Thanks. Say, what's your name?" "I guess we never did get introduced. I'm Trey." "What's your grandfather's name?" He stared at her a moment, smiling softly. "Nobody ever asks that. Woodrow. Woody. Dad was called Chippy. I'm lucky I didn't end up as Sawdust." She laughed, then looked up into his eyes, still smiling. It was a palpable darkness, more felt than seen. If there was any sound, it was felt and not heard. She saw a slight grayness growing into a reddish tint. A bright red dot appeared, and as it moved toward her it grew into a network of dots and lines coloured a vicious deep red. It looked like some kind of dinosaur, huge jaws with an impossible number of teeth, horrible claws, tail moving like a snake. Its eyes glowed a profane yellow; there was no question it was looking at her, and its skeletal mouth was an evil grin. Pain crackled along its electric lines. It was moving toward her without walking, floating very steadily in the pure blackness. The jaws opened wide, and in an incredible acceleration it moved toward her and bit-- She was flying out of bed, covers thrown off, and staggering on her weak knee. She stared at the mattress, breath ragged, blood pounding in her temples, right arm throbbing. She gasped and gulped for air. Her eyes were open so wide they hurt. Long, slow breaths helped only a little. She left the bedroom and closed the door, tried to relax on the couch. She couldn't stop shaking. The terror didn't leave her until the sun was up. The physical therapist half carried her to the bench. "You're making good progress," he said. "Doesn't feel like it," she gasped, trying to get comfortable without bending her left knee. "The knee has a ways to go yet," he conceded, "but you don't need the arm sling any more. Wear it if you're going to be doing something active, and be careful with heavy lifting, but try to wean yourself off it. I think you can be off the crutch in another two weeks, though you'll be in the brace for a while after that." "Fine. Great." She rubbed her right arm, holding it against her side. The little boy kept looking at her body in shameless glances. Discovering hormones, eager to grow up. But he wasn't a little boy. He was a grown woman before the Shift; a junior eftom. Also, he was her psychologist. "How much alcohol did you keep at home?" "None," she answered truthfully. "Drinking is a social thing." "Sounds like you were still in college parties, just with your working twenty-something friends." The boy cocked his head and smiled. "Pretty much. I guess we were all at the same table but not the same party. I was all alone with them." "Well," he said, "we could check with your Aunt Wendy, but it sounds like you aren't an alcoholic. You drink for some reason, not just to drink." "I guess so." "What's the reason?" "It's not my fault." "Nobody said drinking is your fault," he reminded her. "No, I mean, when I drink, things that happen aren't my fault. Someone else takes care of everything. I don't have to do it all." "Hm. But you do when you're sober?" "I..." It was hard to explain. "There's always something somebody needs. And I keep informed, so they don't lose track of what's going on in the world." "They're too focused on their own lives?" She stared across the room. They were seated in armchairs--no couch here, no doctor with a cigar--between a desk and the door. There was a large picture on the wall, a waterfall in a forest in early evening. Very soothing. She moved her gaze down to the tufted hair. His feet dangled above the floor, and his arms were lifted a bit at the shoulder to rest on the chair. He was small for his age. "It's just, if I don't keep things afloat, nobody else will." "What would happen then?" Quiz felt odd when such a young face gave her such a steady gaze. The body and personality didn't match, and the uncanniness made her uncomfortable. It was something she experienced frequently. She had awakened with no memory in a world gone mad, where no one was who they were and her own brain was her enemy. She herself was not Kurt or Linda or Aunt Wendy's daughter, and who else was left? "I don't know. I guess I'd have to put things back together." She shifted in her chair. "They'd never be the same." "That's OK," the non-boy said. "Things would be different, but they'd still be something." "Something better or worse?" Her face still had a slight unfamiliarity, even from the inside, but she could tell her expression was sad. The boy smiled. "Some people say any change has to be toward fitting better in the world." "So," Quiz said. "Manual transmission?" Laine shrugged. "You never forget your first car. It's what I learned on." "Nice," Quiz said, not sure if she meant it. Her hand brushed the Honda logo on the dashboard. "Hear that, Igor?" Laine patted the dashboard. Quiz looked at her incredulously. "You named your car?" Laine squirmed a little and looked straight ahead. Quiz shook her head. "Boy, you really are a girl." "So I am constantly reminded." Quiz nodded. "I didn't really notice before," she mused. "But I do now. Every time someone looks at me--man or woman. Every time I get dressed in the morning. Hell, every time I move." "Seems odd," Laine commented, glancing in the mirror and putting on the left turn signal. "I'm hyper-aware since the seizure. The whole world is new. I don't know how I didn't see it before." "You never gave it a chance. Your whole demeanor was yelling 'I'm a woman!' at the world, but you were doing it in a macho way." Quiz giggled. "We all knew it was an act." Lained glanced at her. "But we had to let you find your own way." Quiz shook her head. "It definitely wasn't the way I expected." "So, has anything else changed?" "Like what?" "I don't know. How about your taste in men? Still like the bad boys?" Quiz felt sick. "Sorry," Laine said. "I shouldn't pry." Quiz laughed quietly. "It was a very girl thing to ask." Laine smiled. "I don't know. Maybe. What other types are there?" "I have no idea. Jake and Pete?" "Apples and oranges." Quiz shifted. "And I'd have to be a Caroline to be with someone like Pete." Laine nodded. She pressed the brakes and turned into the parking lot. Quiz was staring out the window at Pete's car. She flinched. Pete explained to Jake that she wasn't using the name Linda anymore. "So," he said, "have you chosen a new name?" She sipped her soda. "Not yet. I've got some ideas." "Try them out on us," Laine said. "We promise not to laugh." She smiled weakly at her friends. "I could pick something that goes with this body. Something Irish, like Maureen." "Maureen Arquist," Laine repeated. "It flows," Pete commented. "Hm." Hearing someone else say it made it seem more real, and it didn't seem comfortable. It was too loose on the shoulders, too tight on the legs. Whatever that meant. Her mind kept poking her with weird metaphors. "I thought some of the feminine of my old name. Courtney, maybe." Pete looked unconvinced. Jake pursed his lips, shook his head. Laine shrugged. "I could pick something by what it means, but I don't know what to pick. How do I describe myself?" "Give us some examples," Jake said. "Kurt has something to do with courtesy or courage. I don't think I ever lived up to that. Linda just means pretty or lovely. I didn't do too well with that either, and that's some time I wish I'd forgotten completely. Maureen seems to have several meanings, and I don't really like any of them, but it's more of a name for its own sake. "I looked you up. Pete - the rock. Jake - supplanter. Sorry, no offense. Caroline - beautiful lady. Laine - well, you live on a lane. I know, I was hoping for more from that." Even when looking insulted, Laine was gentle toward her. "Elaine means light," Quiz added hastily. "You could just make Quiz official," Caroline pointed out. "You'd already chosen it before." "Maybe," Quiz said, sipping her drink with a distant gaze. She lifted her head. "Also, I was thinking of Donna." Pete and Laine traded a sideways glance. "That's a nice name," Caroline said. "Means pretty lady," Jake observed. "I can share," Caroline grinned. Pete put his arm around her and kissed her hair. "It all feels so strange," Quiz sighed. "I guess it's a good thing parents choose our names." "In some cases, anyway. But," Pete laughed, "A Boy Named Sue isn't a joke anymore." They all laughed. "Ah, there you are." Jerry stood in the door to her office. "I am indeed," she said, spinning away from the computer to face him. "Please?" She gestured to the guest chair. "You barefoot back there?" He grinned. "Halfway," she grinned back. "Don't take this the wrong way," he said, "but I'm not the only one who thinks your taste in clothing has improved." She inclined her head. "Me too." He laughed. "OK, then, on to it. I give up; why have you been sending me info on everything related to housing?" "You got that, eh? Good. Look," she gestured out the window. "Nice day, isn't it? Romance is in the air. Storks are coming out of hibernation. Builders are sharpening their tools. Everybody's dressing up the homes for expansion." "Quiz, storks don't hibernate." "Whatever. The point is, all those empty houses are back on the market. Prices have fallen far enough for people who couldn't get a house before. New families starting. Lots of shotgun weddings in the past few months." "Right, so a housing boom. A bit soon for a market correction, but the signs are there." "Everywhere," she said. "There wasn't a bubble to burst: it was a froth. But I think this will be the first sector to rebound, and it'll drive the rest." "Well, Quiz," he leaned back in the chair and put his hands behind his head. His suit jacket opened, and his tie lay across his torso. "I agree with you." He'd gained a little weight. "Do you, now." "Yup. Kinda had the same idea myself." "Naturally." She crossed her arms and leaned back. A twinge stopped her from habitually propping her foot on the trash can. "Thing is," Jerry continued, "I wasn't sure. I get mixed information. You put it together, made the case." She put one arm down. "I need something to do, riding in the van pool." "You're up early and coming in with a workup on Tokyo and Hong Kong," he said. "Like old times." She frowned. "What are you getting at?" "Quiz, people aren't comfortable with the idea of you managing a portfolio, making trades. Partly it's that you're brain got scrambled, partly it's that you made a lot of enemies. But--" he held up a hand to stop her protest. "People are talking about you, a lot, and they're saying good things. They're saying you do your homework and you find good opportunities." She nodded, still frowning. "I guess that's good. But what else?" He leaned forward and spoke quietly. "Look, I'm not out to get you, OK? Please tell me you know I'm not out to get you." "OK," she said. "What is it?" "You aren't going to be a fund manager. They're not going to put you back into trading." "What did you say?" "I said--" "I heard you. I'm asking how you could say that to me." He sighed and leaned back. "The auditors have been beating us up all over the place, but particularly on your work. There was a lack of documentation on a lot of the more speculative trades, and a lot of your decisions were at odds with recommendations from Research. I know, I know." He gestured to her Employee of the Quarter plaque. "The results were brilliant. But that isn't enough." "Great." She leaned back, folded her arms again, closed her eyes. "I'm being forced out. I guess I'm weak now, unable to defend myself fresh out of the hospital." "Please don't take it that way." He leaned forward again. "You do have allies. You would be surprised who's going to bat for you. You're leaving this office, one way or another, but if you want to land on your feet, there will be places." "Anything else happen while I was out?" She was leaning back farther, opening her eyes to stare at the ceiling tiles. "Rafi got food poisoning by stealing someone else's lunch from the fridge, and Charles won the contest to pick how long it would be before you wore makeup again." She stared at him. "I'm not wearing any." He laughed. "I know. Everyone else's date has passed." She buckled the seat belt and sat for several minutes, just looking at the dashboard, the seats, her foot on the pedals, the hood. Finally she took a deep breath and turned the ignition. The engine cleared its throat and growled into a purr. She felt the vibrations. She felt the ghost of excitement. She revved the engine and watched the meter. She felt scared and let the engine idle, checking again that it was in neutral. Of course it was. She looked through the windshield, and the garage seemed to leap toward her. Out of the corner of her eye, it seemed things were rushing past. It was just a car pulling out several spaces down. She imagined being on the street, speeding, weaving in and out of traffic, then suddenly seeing a pillar up ahead, rushing toward it, too late to stop-- She closed her eyes and tried not to hear the sound of a crash. She opened her eyes and saw the stability of the garage, heard the car gently idling. At any moment a seizure could hit. She did not want to drive a car again, ever. She shut off the engine. She'd only turned it on to keep it from stagnating, after all. "I'll get lunch. Then we'll hit the stores." "Honey, clothes are so expensive now. Let me just bring you some from the house." Quiz shook her head. "I've got plenty of money. What I don't have is someone to take me shopping. I need to find my style. You can help." Wendy weighed her words, nodded slightly. "Also," Quiz said, smiling, "I invested heavily in clothing companies." "OK," the older lady laughed. At the table, Quiz hung her cane and purse on a chair and thanked Wendy for carrying the tray. "Of course, dear. You just take it easy on that leg." Quiz looked around. Mall food courts are busy places, great for people-watching but noisy and reverberating. She was winning the uphill battle to make sense of the world and all its stimulations, but a place like this was overwhelming. She was looking forward to the privacy of a dressing room. "Aunt Wendy," she said, "what words describe me?" The older lady looked stricken. She put down her fork. "Oh, dear, I don't know where to begin." "Physically." "OK." Wendy collected her thoughts. "You were always my little bear. Freckles. Thunderthighs." Quiz laughed out loud. "I'm sorry," Wendy said, contritely. "It's OK. I'd actually thought of that one myself, before we met." "Before we... right. Let's see, what else. Honey hair. I guess most people would say flame hair. Guppy, when you swam. Yo-yo when you were skiing." Quiz was laughing. "You spent a lot of time thinking silly things about your daughter." "A mother has a right," she sniffed. "OK, let's try something else. Other than physically. Like, character." "A robin, always with your flights of fancy. A bouquet of drawings. A star at school. A bookworm." She paused. "Did I see you carrying a sketch pad?" Quiz lost her smile. "Yes. Yes, you did." "Can I see?" Quiz didn't want to show her, but she didn't know how to say no. Wendy flipped through a few pages, saying "Nice" and nodding, then suddenly stopped. Her face was pale. "You drew this? Recently?" It was a picture of the nerve demon, the red dinosaur skeleton with the yellow eyes, in colored pencil. Drawing it wasn't as cathartic as she'd hoped. "I... can't get the picture out of my head." "Cindy, you drew this many times when you were fifteen. When you first started having seizures." It was the first time, and the last, Wendy used her daughter's name on Quiz. The name dove into Quiz's head and buried itself in her mind. The red dinosaur peeked over a fold of the brain and glared malevolently at the name. Quiz put a hand over her eyes. She took the sketch pad out of Wendy's hand, put it in her purse, and zipped and snapped it closed. She picked up her fork and didn't look at the woman who wasn't her mother. The girl in the mirror was, frankly, plain; the white bra and panties were straight out of a Sears catalogue, totally girl-next-door. It felt naked, private, as if the world outside didn't exist until she put something on over the white. 'I'll bet I would have this feeling all day if I wore this under my clothes,' she thought, smiling. 'I'll bet Laine does.' She turned one way, then the other to see angles. Bracing her left hand against the wall, she lifted her right foot onto the stepstool and viewed her thigh and crotch, flexed her calf, pointed her toe. She stood simply, arms at her sides; leaned forward to see how her breasts were supported. She put her arm behind her head and canted her hips. In these clothes, the pose just looked innocent. "So," Quiz said, "a green dress is good for my red hair?" She pulled a bit of fabric out from the hangers to look at it. "Well, not that particular green," Wendy said with a snort. "Try this one." "Hm." Quiz held it up in front of her, then turned it around and pressed it against her body, looking down at it. Wendy fingered the price tag. Her eyebrows furrowed. "Hey," Quiz said. "Don't worry about that. Just help me get the right one." In the mirror, the girl had curly red hair draped on her shoulders. The deep green dress was strapless, with a ruffle across her chest. There was just a hint of cleavage; it was modest, but it outlined her hips well. It was ankle-length but cut on the right leg. Her feet were bare. I've never seen myself like this before, she thought in wonder. "Thanks," Quiz said to Wendy. "That was really nice of you. I really needed that." "Happy to," the older lady said. "I guess that's a bonding experience you never had." "I doubt I would have even if I'd been a girl. My mom and I were never close," Quiz admitted. "From what your friends told me," Mrs. Greene observed, "you were looking for her pretty desperately." Quiz paused and looked her in the eye. "In what way?" The older lady tilted her head. "All those women." Quiz opened the car door as Wendy put the boxes in the back seat. She braced herself against the side of the car, put the cane inside, and did a controlled fall into the passenger seat. Wendy got in, helped her fasten the seat belt, belted herself, and started the car. After all those women, all those men. "I guess I've made a mess out of being a girl," she said. "Oh, honey," Wendy said. "Sex is fine, just don't confuse it with love. And it isn't what makes you who you are." Quiz wondered what was going to make her somebody. "You're late, Quiz." Pete was grinning. "It's her fault," she said, pointing at Laine. "I wasn't driving." She fought down a lump in her throat. The waitress named Boysenberry brought rolls and water. Laine and Jake were holding hands under the table. Quiz spent a lot of time looking at the menu but finally gave up and ordered the daily special. "So, Quiz," Caroline said. "What's the news?" "Hm, well. There was a flash mob at the Civic center yesterday to show support for the graffiti artist that signs the paintings 'Harlequin'. Kristy Mason released a CD, and it's getting rave reviews." "I saw her live," Laine said. "She's good." "There's a parade downtown for Shift Day. And I've decided my name is Donna." After a beat, Pete and Laine said almost in unison, "That's great." "Congratulations," Laine continued. "I kind of thought you would," Caroline said. "Welcome to the sisterhood." "It's a comfortable name, a name you can trust." Jake shrugged. "Seems like we usually get our impressions of names from people we know." "So what else is happening?" Pete asked quickly. "There's a water-skiing tournament on the lake this weekend." She picked up a roll and took a bite. "I did that once, when was twelve." Pete and Laine glanced at each other. "Did you win?" Jake asked. Donna frowned. "I don't remember. I just remember having trouble getting the straps adjusted. My shoulders were sore." "The straps on your swimsuit?" Jake asked. "I was a boy, numbskull. The life vest." She frowned again. "Quiz," Pete said, "you never water-skiied." "Of course I did," she answered. "You didn't grow up near a lake. We played in the quarry and in a stream, but no skiing," Laine confirmed. "No, I remember Mom drove me there. I mean, Aunt Wendy. I mean..." she trailed off. "Aunt Wendy?" Caroline asked. Donna gestured to her body. "Cindy's mother." "You didn't know her when you were twelve." Donna closed her eyes and beat her fist on the table softly. "I know that. I just remember it so clearly. But it didn't happen." She looked at Pete and Laine. "What else didn't happen?" "Um," Laine said. "Lots of things, I suppose." "We'll let you know," Pete said. She beat a fist against her forehead, sighed, and shook out her hair. "Hey," Pete said. "You've really gotten good." He and Laine had come to pick her up, and she invited them in to see her apartment. She had drawings and watercolors, some spread on tables and some on the walls. "I don't get around as much anymore," she said. "I needed a hobby." "Going with an animal theme, are you?" Pete gestured to pictures of big cats, ungulates, the occasional primate, birds. Donna cringed when he looked at a teddy bear and raised an eyebrow at her. He stopped in front of a robin about to alight on a tree branch. Laine pulled up the sheet on the easel. "What's under here?" "No!" Donna cried. "It isn't finished." Pete moved behind Laine to see. "Wow," he said. "That's cute," Laine said, delighted. On the easel was a pencil drawing, lovingly shaded, of a dinosaur. It was fleshed out and had a silly, gentle expression, but the skeletal lines underneath were obvious. It had started as a different drawing, more severe. Its eyes were a puppy green. It was wearing a flannel shirt. "So," Donna said hastily, "anyone else hungry? I know I am." She trotted to the door and turned out the light. "Let's hurry and get a good table." "Our table's always waiting," Laine said. "Hey," Donna said with mock anger, accenting her words with a pointed finger. "Don't you be teasing me." "What's eating you tonight?" Laine asked when Pete got up to go to the men's room. Donna was putting together mixed bites from a separated plate. "Just people at work." "Mm hm," Laine said, eating less than she was watching Donna eat. "This guy named Charles. An eftom. In charge of Research. Always putting me down." "He said something yesterday?" Donna sighed. "Had to rub it in after a meeting. He said, 'Now you know the only way a woman gets anywhere in business is by acting like a man. And you don't have it anymore.'" "Oh. I'm sorry," Laine said. "Do you get that, as a musician? Seems like a pretty egalitarian occupation." "Yes and no. Women are pushed more toward being singers than instrumentalists, I think, and instrumentalists sometimes look down on singers. But I can deal with that. I'm getting my chops back. Besides, music is music." Sex is sex, Donna heard her own voice say. She wasn't sure how she felt about that. Laine continued. "I find that people make it difficult for you if you don't act like their idea of a girl. That's part of why I go with the cues." "What else is part of it?" Laine shrugged. "It just feels good." Donna looked off into the distance. "You know," she said, "the Shift changed my sex, but I think it was the seizures that changed my gender. I'm acting a lot more like a girl nowadays. Thinking of myself as a girl and not trying to be what Kurt thought a girl was." Laine smiled. "We've noticed." "Well, Linda, how are we doing?" Doctor Wizen smiled, set down his clipboard, and sat in the chair. "I go by Donna now," she said, shifting on the paper sheet and looking slightly down at him. She never liked the way they made you sit on a bed even when you're healthy, but at this point a doctor's office was pretty familiar territory. "Donna," he acknowledged. "How's the Lamictal going? Have you had any episodes? Any side effects?" "No seizures," she said. "Let me know if you experience lightheadedness, balance problems, vertigo, nausea, anything like that." "Oh, I remember," she said. "Gums. Does it make them recede?" "Shouldn't, though Dilantin can cause them to swell. You weren't on it long enough to have that kind of side effect, though. However, the gums may get sensitive during your period." "Ugh," she said. Those definitely were worse with the new medication. "Anything you can do about it? The time of the month?" "Afraid there's no cure for that," he said humorlessly. "You can check with your G-Y-N, but I can tell you that the usual treatments for symptoms won't have any interaction with your Lamictal. However, any time you think you may be or may become pregnant, we have to address how the medication affects the fetus." "Not happening any time soon. So, tell me about these seizures. What's causing them? Flashing lights?" He consulted his clipboard. "According to your records, no specific cause was identified. They ran the usual battery of tests attempting to induce an episode, but they came up negative." She frowned. "Don't you know?" "No," he said evenly. "We could hook you up to a scanner and then take you off meds and deprive you of sleep. That'll do it. After about a day and a half without sleep, usually less, almost all patients start seizing. We could see where it starts in your brain, or for that matter make a guess based on your aura, but that won't affect the treatment. We know from the MRI there aren't any tumors. One way to find out for certain is to do an autopsy, but in my opinion your condition isn't severe enough to justify that." She smiled at the dry humour, but clearly there was no escaping the medicine, not if she wanted to live a normal life and drive a car. "How about recovery? What can I expect?" "You tell me," he said. "There's nothing more individual than a brain. Other than a few generalities you passed in the first few weeks, every patient's experience is unique. However, we take an interest in cases of amnesia. It tells us a lot about memory." "Like if they're really my memories or something that was in the brain from before?" "Something like that," he agreed. "There are a lot of ideas on what the Shift was as a neurological event. Memory is tied up with habits, motor control, sensory input, and just about everything else; it isn't like you can just take them out as a unit and put them in another brain, and yet that's what appears to have happened. When you look more deeply, however, you see that everybody got a little blurred around the edges. Some people find they have a lot of alien memories or holes in their own history. Some people are clumsy, still having trouble controlling the body in fine. Conditions such as yours stayed with the body and were unaffected by the changes to the few billion neural pathways involved in the Shift. Some of my patients have different kinds of seizures or episodes of different severity than before." "I know a guy who was colorblind before the Shift, and now he sees in color." "That's interesting. I know of some people who are still colorblind even though the new body wasn't. It doesn't work the other way, though--if the cones aren't there, the color doesn't go to the brain. Interestingly, those people report that they can remember colors they can't see and sometimes dream in full spectrum." "Sounds like phantom limbs." He inclined his head. "We could go on forever finding analogies to Shift experiences. It always comes down to the individual." "Well, I'm on in a few minutes," Laine said, standing. She turned to Donna and said, "You really look good," and there was a hint of surprise in her voice: she meant it. Donna watched her walk over to the corner where the sound system was set up. She turned to Pete and looked at him. "You do," he confirmed. She smiled, and her face felt all summer. "Something to drink?" Pete asked. "Sure. Thank you. Some juice if they have it, or club soda." By the time Pete returned, Laine was singing. She was holding the microphone like a shield. "Smoking, drinking, never thinking of tomorrow, Nonchalant; Diamonds shining, dancing, dining with some man in a restaurant, I