As Peter slouched nonchalantly, and the trio of patient and attendants stepped past him, he could not resist speaking out loud, but under his breath, a whispered impulse designed for the ears of the man being escorted past: "Hello Angel," he said. "I know who you are."

Neither of the Moses brothers seemed to overhear his greeting.

Nor did the patient hesitate in the slightest. He merely shuffled along, plodding just behind the Moses brothers, seemingly unaware that he'd been spoken to. He moved a little bit like a man wearing hand and leg restraints, in short choppy steps, although there was nothing actually restricting his motion.

Peter watched the man's broad back disappear through the front door before he lifted himself off the wall and stepped toward the office where Lucy Jones waited. He didn't exactly know what to make of what had just happened.

Before he reached the office, however, Lucy Jones emerged, closely followed by Francis, who was hanging back, as if to distance himself from the psychologist. Peter could see that C-Bird had a troubled look, as if some thought or some idea had diminished him slightly. He looked lighter. But the young man lifted his head up abruptly, saw Peter approaching, and seemed to recover in that second, immediately moving away from Mister Evil toward Peter. At the same time, Peter saw Gulptilil enter the hallway from the far stairwell, leading a small coterie of staff members. Lots of notepads and pencils, scribbling observations, taking notations. Peter saw Cleo, cigarette dangling from her lower lip, launch herself out of an old and uncomfortable chair, and directly into the medical director's path. She held her ground like some ancient warrior defending the gates of her city.

"Ah, Doctor!" Her voice was just a little shy of being a shout. "What do you intend to do about the inadequate food portions being served at mealtimes? I don't believe that the state legislature envisioned starving us all to death when they established this place. I have friends who have friends who know people in high places, and they just might have the governor's ear on issues of mental health…"

Gulp-a-pill hesitated and turned toward Cleo. The group of interns and resident physicians accompanying him paused, and like a chorus line at a Broadway show, turned in unison. "Ah, Cleo," the doctor replied unctuously, mimicking her choice of words. "I was unaware that there was a problem, and equally unaware that you had complained. But I do not think it necessary to involve the entirety of state government in this matter. I will speak with the kitchen staff and make certain that everyone gets all they need at mealtimes."

Cleo, however, was just getting started.

"The Ping-Pong paddles are worn," she continued, picking up some momentum with each word. "They need replacing. The balls are frequently cracked, thereby rendering them useless and the nets are frayed and held together with string. The table is warped and unsteady. Tell me, Doctor, how is one supposed to improve their game with inferior equipment that doesn't meet even the minimum United States Table Tennis Association standards?"

"Again, I was unaware that this had arisen as a problem. I will examine the recreation budget to see if there are funds for a purchase."

While this might have placated some, Cleo was far from finished. "There's far too much noise in the dormitories at night to get a good sleep. Far, far too much. Sleep is critical to one's sense of well-being and overall progress toward health. The Surgeon General recommends at least eight hours per day of uninterrupted sleep. And furthermore, we need more space. Much more space. There are death row prisoners with more living space than we have. The overcrowding is out of control. And we need more toilet paper in the bathrooms.

A lot more toilet paper, and…" By now her voice was a cascade of complaints, "… why aren't there more attendants to help people out at night, when we have nightmares? Every night, someone screams for help. Nightmares, nightmares, nightmares. You call and call and cry and no one ever comes. That's wrong, just plain, flat-out goddamn son of a bitch wrong."

"We, like many state institutions, currently have staffing problems, Cleo," the doctor responded with a condescending tone. "I will, of course, register your complaints and your suggestions and see if there's anything we can do. But if the skeleton staff that works the overnight shift were to respond to every cry they overheard, they would be worked to a frazzle within a night or two, Cleo. I'm afraid nightmares are something that we will all have to learn to live with from time to time."

"That is hardly fair. With all the medications you bastards pump us full of, you ought to be able to find something so folks can sleep without being excessively troubled." Cleo seemed to inflate herself as she spoke, rising up with a regal haughtiness, a Marie Antoinette of the Amherst Building.

"I will examine the physician's guide for some additional medication," the doctor lied. "Are there any more issues that you need addressed?"

Cleo looked a little flustered, a little frustrated, but, then almost as swiftly, this look dissolved into something considerably more sly. "Yes," she said briskly. "I want to know what is happening to poor Lanky." And then she lifted her arm and pointed at Lucy, who was standing patiently waiting by the side of the corridor. "And I want to know if she's been able to find the real killer!"

The words echoed in the hallway.

Gulptilil smiled wanly, and answered quietly, "Lanky continues to remain in solitary confinement, accused of first degree murder. I believe I have explained this to you before. He had a bail hearing, but, as one would expect, none was granted. He has been assigned a public defender, and he continues to get his medications from the hospital. He's still being held in the county jail, pending additional court hearings. I am told his spirits are fine…"

"That's a lie," Cleo said angrily. "Lanky's probably miserable away from here. This is his home, such as it is, and we are his friends, such as we are. He should be returned here forthwith!" She took a deep breath, and then, sarcastically, mimicked the doctor's words. "I have told you this before. Why don't you listen to me?"

"… And as to your other question," Gulptilil continued, ignoring Cleo's accusation, "well, that is better directed to Miss Jones. But she is under no obligation to inform anyone as to what progress she feels she has made. Or not made." The last words were underscored by Gulptilil's acid voice.

Cleo stepped back, muttering something to herself. Gulptilil separated himself from her, and like a scout leader on a hike in the woods, waved the accompanying group of residents to follow him down the corridor. He had only taken a few steps, however, before Cleo burst out, loud, insistent and ringing with accusation, "I'm watching you, Gulptilil! I can see what's going on! You may fool some of the people around here, but not me!" Then, slightly under her breath, but not enough so that the physicians couldn't hear her, she added, "You're all bastards."

The medical director paused, half started to turn back, then obviously thought better of it. Francis could see that his face was set, unsuccessfully trying to hide the discomfort of the moment.

"We're all in danger and you sons of bitches aren't doing anything about it!" Cleo bellowed.

Then she gave a little giggle, took a long drag on her cigarette, cackled to herself and slumped back down into her seat, where she continued to watch the director move down the corridor, grinning with a self-satisfied look on her face. Holding her cigarette in her hand like a baton, she waved it in the air. A conductor satisfied with the final notes of the orchestral arrangement.

Francis was oddly encouraged by Cleo's bombast. It seemed to him that her outburst had gained the attention of every patient wandering the ward. Whether it meant anything to any of them, Francis could not tell, but he smiled to himself at her meager display of rebelliousness and wished that he had the same confidence to be as demanding. Cleo, for her part, must have sensed Francis's thoughts, because she blew a large elaborate smoke ring into the still corridor air, watched it dissipate, then gave Francis a wink.