"Here are the papers you'll need tomorrow morning." Moscoe slid a manila folder across his desk to where Fordo sat tracing the many lines of his palm with a sharpie. Fordo paused from his work and picked up the file with his non-decorated hand. "You'll have to get a good night's rest to be prepared for all of it. And no midnight snacks! We need an empty belly for safe work." Fordo noted a sort of ice-cream-quality lacing Moscoe's current voice that reminded him greatly of his first-year teacher. He'd hated that teacher. She'd taken him out of playtime to clean the erasers once a week after she'd found out he'd "accidentally" spilled paint down Rachel Loebig's favourite pink blouse. Served her right, though.

"So am I 'sposed to stop eating or something?"

"Indeed. After nine-thirty tonight you're only allowed water and your required prescription." Nine-thirty, eh? Hopefully he'd be long gone by then.

Fordo opened the folder in his hands, glancing over the contents and trying to appear uninterested. Firstly was his "personal record", stating his name, age, height, weight and where to phone if something went horribly wrong. Nothing terribly interesting. Afterwards came a medical record stating all his allergies and illnesses. This page, he noted with a great amount of surprise, was all but blank. The rest held his transcripts (not that that made sense), a copy of his birth certificate and a quick list of the drugs he was supposed to be taking. Moscoe had apparently been observing him.

"You need to give that to the nurse tomorrow. She'll be the one to take you to your treatment."

"I know what nurse you mean." He shut the folder and tossed it on Moscoe's desk before again tracing his hand.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?"

"Honestly, a crude attempt at self-mutilation."

Fordo laughed. "Am I suicidal now?"

"I never said that."

"Of course not. Why else would I bother asking?"

Moscoe sighed and attempted to appear patient. "My point is, Mr. Summers, that if you contine this kind of activity, some may believe that....you are something different from your true form."

"You mean suicidal?"

"It's a possibility." Moscoe's eyes gazed fixidly on Fordo. "Or perhaps insolent and cynical."

"I thought I all-ready was that." Fordo returned in his eyes the same force that Moscoe's possessed.

"That's your opinion, Mr. Summers."

"I'm sure it is."

Moscoe sat up straight in his chair, a thought coming to his mind. "Tell me, how did you sleep last night?"

Fordo was puzzled. "All-right..."

"Did the noise from the hall bother you?"

"Not really..."

Moscoe fixed his eyes piercingly on Fordo, examining his face for signs of a lie. Fordo sat there, pen held hovering over his palm and a look of utter confusion on his face. The man leaned back, seeming satisfied. "Good. I'm glad." He brought out his psychologist pose again. Fordo shrinked back into his chair. God, that was disturbing. He had a tendency to get really ansy around shrinks, especially when they did things like that. "You are a fascinating person, Mr. Summers. Did you know that?"

Fordo tried not to shudder. "How do you mean?"

"I have never dealt with a...patient quite like you. See, all the others had this...wretched tendency to co-operate."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Not necessarily. It was just easy." His eyes refused to leave Fordo's. "You, however, are not easy. We attempt to help you and you disincline. We offer escape and you want nothing of it."

"Escape?"

"Yes. What do you think your supplements are for? They allow you to sleep or calm, depending. Didn't you realise that?"

"Sorry. It must've slipped me mind."

"That's all-right." His eyes narrowed conspicuously. "It happens."

The room seemed colder than usual. Naturally, it was a figurative cold and not a literal someone-forgot-to-turn-on-the-heater kind of cold. Fordo couldn't decide whether it was the piercing glance in Moscoe's eyes or the obvious hate that radiated from him, but there was a definite icy quality to the air. Fordo turned back towards his hand, regrasped his pen and continued to trace.

Moscoe noticed something peculiar about this occurance that caused his eyebrows to furrow. "Are you left-handed, Mr. Summers?"

"Why?" he scoffed.

"You're tracing your right palm."

He shrugged. "Ambidextrous."

Moscoe's eyes widened for a moment before he became again aware of his actions and stopped them. Fordo, absorbed in his own doings, did not notice this alteration. For a moment they sat in silence, the boy continuing his drawing and the man visually scrutinising his every action. Fordo tried to ignore this by concentrating more on his task. As he drew the almost continuous lines that spanned across his palm, his mind floated to the plans of that evening.


His session ended uneventfully. Fordo walked back to his room still absorbed in his thoughts. He couldn't wait to escape and yet he knew none of Moscoe's inevitable plans. Somehow, he knew this place was to play a major part in his latter journeys but to what point and purpose he did not know. How could he leave so secretive a place without breaking its many codes?

Ten hours remained.

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Oh-so close. Yet oh-so far. Sorry it took so long. Please tell me what sucks and what doesn't. This is yet to be proof-read by any person other than myself. Remember kids, you saw it here first on The Corny Collins Show!. I didn't watch "Hairspray" last night...

Kirily Wood