Francis poked at the fast-congealing mess on his plate.

"They must not want us to get fat," he said.

"Someone told me that they sprinkle the food with Thorazine," Napoleon said, leaning forward, whispering conspiratorially. "That way they know they can keep us all calm and under control."

Francis glanced over at the two Jell-O-deprived women still screeching at each other. "Well," he said, "I wouldn't believe it, because it doesn't seem to be working all that fantastically."

"C-Bird," Peter asked, gesturing modestly toward the two women, "Why do you think they're arguing?"

Francis looked up, hesitated, lifted his shoulders, then replied: "Jell-O?"

Peter smiled, because this was slightly funny. Then he shook his head. "No, I can see that. A bowl of lime green Jell-O. I didn't realize it was something worth trading blows over. But why Jell-O? Why now?"

In that second, Francis saw what Peter was really asking. Peter had a way of framing bigger questions within small ones, which was a quality Francis admired, because it displayed, if nothing else, the capacity to think beyond the walls of the Amherst Building. "It's about having something, Peter," he said slowly. "It's about something tangible here where there is so little that we can actually possess. It's not the Jell-O. It's about having the Jell-O. A bowl of Jell-O isn't worth having a fight over. But something that reminds you of who you are, and what you could be, and the world that awaits us, if only we can seize hold of enough little things that will turn us back into humans, well, that's worth fighting for, isn't it?"

Peter paused, considering what Francis had said, and all three of them saw the two women abruptly burst into tears.

Peter's eyes lingered on the pair, and Francis thought that every incident like that must hurt the Fireman deep within his core, because he didn't belong. Francis stole a look over at Napoleon, who shrugged and smiled and happily returned to his mound of food. He belongs, Francis thought. I belong. We all belong, except for Peter, and he must be very afraid, deep inside, that the longer he stays here, the closer he will get to becoming like us. Francis could hear a murmuring of assent deep within him.

Gulptilil looked askance at the list of names Lucy had thrust across the desk at him. "This seems like a substantial cross section of the population here, Miss Jones. Might I ask what your determining criteria were in selecting these patients from the overall clientele?" He sounded stiff and unhelpful with his question, and, when uttered in his warbling, singsong voice, made all the pretentiousness sound a little ridiculous.

"Of course," Lucy replied. "Because I couldn't think of a determining factor that was psychological in nature, like a defining disease, I used instead prior incidents of violence toward women. All seventy-five names here have done something which can be construed as hostile to the opposite sex. Some more than others, surely, but they all have that one factor in common." Lucy spoke just as pompously as the medical director did, an acting quality that she had honed in the prosecutor's office, which often helped her in official situations. There are very few bureaucrats who are not cowed by someone capable of speaking their own language, only better.

Gulptilil looked back at the list, surveying the rows of names, and Lucy wondered whether the doctor was able to assign a face and a file to each. He behaved that way, but she doubted he had that much interest in the actual intimacies of the hospital population. After a moment of two, he sighed.

"Of course, your statement can equally be applied to the gentleman already in custody for the murder," he said. "Nevertheless, Miss Jones, I shall do as you request," he said. "But I must suggest that this appears to be something of a wild-goose chase."

"It's a place to start, Doctor."

"It is also a place to stop," he replied. "Which, I fear, is what will happen to your inquiries when you seek information from these men. I imagine that you will find these interviews to be frustrating."

He smiled, not in a particularly friendly fashion, and added, "Ah, well, Miss

Jones. You would like, I imagine, to get these interviews under way promptly? I will speak with Mister Evans, and perhaps the Moses brothers, who can begin transporting the patients to your office. That way, at least, you can begin to fully encounter the obstacles that you are up against here."

She knew that Doctor Gulptilil was speaking about the vagaries of mental illness, but what he said could be construed in different ways. She smiled at the medical director and nodded in agreement.

By the time she returned to Amherst, Big Black and Little Black were waiting for her in the corridor by the first-floor nursing station. Peter and Francis were with them, leaning against the wall like a pair of bored teenagers hanging out on a street corner waiting for trouble, although the manner in which Peter's eyes swept back and forth down the corridor, watching every movement and assessing each patient that rambled past, contradicted his languid appearance. She did not immediately see Mister Evans, which, she thought, might be a good thing, given what she was about to ask of them. But that was her first question for the two attendants.

"Where is Evans?"

Big Black grunted. "He's on his way over from one of the other buildings. Support staff meeting. Should be here any second. The big doc called over and tells us that we're supposed to start escorting people in to see you. You got a list."

"That's right."

"Suppose," Little Black said, "they aren't quite as eager to come see you. What're we supposed to do then?"

"Don't give them that option. But if they get frantic, or start to lose control well, I can come to them."

"And if they still don't want to talk?"

"Let's not anticipate a problem before we know we have one, okay?"

Big Black rolled his eyes a little, but didn't say anything, although it was clear to Francis that much of Big Black's existence at the hospital was about precisely that: anticipating a problem before it arose. His brother let out a slow sigh, and said, "We'll give it a try. Can't promise exactly how people will react. Never done anything like this in here before. Maybe there won't be any trouble."

"If they refuse, then they refuse, and we'll figure something else out," she said. Then she bent forward slightly and lowered her voice a little. "I have an idea. I wonder if you guys can help me out, and keep it confidential." She waited as the two brothers immediately eyed each other. Little Black spoke for the two of them.

"Sounds to me like you're about to ask a favor that might get us into trouble."

Again, Lucy nodded her head. "Not all that much trouble, I hope."

Little Black grinned widely, as if he saw a joke in what she said. "It's always the person doing the asking that thinks whatever it is ain't that big a deal. But, Miss Jones, we're still listening. Not saying yes. Not saying no. Still listening."

"Instead of you two going to each person and transporting them, I want just one of you to go."

"Generally, Security thinks should be two guys with any transfer like this. One walking on either side. Those are the hospital rules."

"Well, let me tell you what I'm getting at," she said, taking a step closer to the men, so that only that small group might hear her, which was probably unnecessary in the hospital, but more a natural response to the meager conspiracy that Lucy had in mind. "I'm only modestly optimistic that these interviews will turn up something, and I'm really about to rely on Francis probably far more than he's aware," she said slowly. The others looked over at the young man quickly, who blushed, as if singled out in class by a teacher he had a crush upon. "But as Peter pointed out the other day, what we really have here is a lack of hard evidence. I'd like to try to do something about that."