turned in the sheets of the hospital bed. “Sometimes seizures are not
epilepsy, but have psychological causes and—”
“So you ignore my calls, but come in here to tell me I’m crazy.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been busy. I’m doing my residency here, and saw
your name on the door. I looked into your case because I’m worried. There
are certain things doctors don’t always know to look for because they
never really know their patients, and this might be something like one of
those things. I’m trying to help.”
David didn’t say anything else. What was the point? His friend was
now completely working for the conspirators, here to undermine the truth,
here with purely malicious intent.
Fairfax squeezed David’s foot through the bed sheets and left with
a sigh, “Get better, okay?” David couldn’t be sure if he was right about
Fairfax’s motives, but when they were friends, Fairfax warned David about
searching for the truth, and David wanted to honor that.
When checking his mail after returning from the hospital, he opened
a letter from the DMV informing him that his license was suspended until
his seizures were under control. The doctors had started him on a low dose
of Phenobarbital, an epilepsy medication. Intent on seeing Natasha again,
he rode two buses to Joann’s Fabrics. Neither Natasha nor the cashier was
still there. The cashier must have been killed for showing the conspirators
his knowledge of the holodecks and that he was dangerous enough to
reveal the plot to others. Unfortunately for him, he made the mistake David
did and thought Natasha must have been a nonperson illusion.
A woman in a lab coat punches numbers into a cash register.
“You’ve taken this medication before. Do you need me to explain
anything?” the pharmacist asks without making eye contact.
“No,” David says offering his debit card, “Wait. Can I still drink
alcohol while on this?”
“No,” she swipes his card.
“What if I skip a dose and then drink?”
37