Although in one session they did talk about the diary. The psychiatrist asked her how long she’d been writing it. She didn’t remember, Soon said. She only wrote in it off and on. There were periods when she wrote a lot and others when she didn’t write at all, absolutely nothing. And what caused those intervals? Did she write when she felt bad or when she felt good? The latter: when she felt good. So, what she wrote about that man …? Soon said nothing. She didn’t understand the question. What was the question? The psychologist blinked. When you wrote about that man, did you feel good? Soon said no, then yes, then that it wasn’t easy to explain: she was cornered. Because, the psychologist went on, you wrote repugnant things. I copied them, said Soon. Copied them from where? Did you copy them or were they dictated to you? Did that man dictate them? Did he ask you to write them so he could read them later? The psychologist was sounding like a cop: her inquisitive tone, formulistic and accusatory. Soon shrank in her chair, pressed against the backrest; she wanted to run away. I copied them from a book, she stammered. A book I found in the library. The psychologist looked at her seriously for a few seconds, in silence. Then a faint grimace emerged, which ended up becoming a smile, a sweet smile. You mustn’t worry, she said: it’s not bad to imagine things, the only problem is that sometimes our imagination runs away and certain bad people can take advantage of our lack of control. Soon nodded without understanding. The psychologist repeated that she shouldn’t worry in the slightest about the matter of the diary. But Soon thought: if that’s true, why did she bring it up. She couldn’t forget the serious way the woman had looked at her before absolving her. That sternness had contained an extremely severe judgement, one part reprobation and another part disgust. To the psychologist, Soon must be like a girl possessed by the devil.

She doesn’t tell Old Man about any of this, either. No, they didn’t medicate her by force, or stick her in isolation, or tie her to a chair. But she felt humiliated in a different way. The only thing she says to him is: who are they to think they can understand us? Old Man says: to them we’re like stuffed chickens! They cut us open and empty us out and then fill us up with whatever they think is better, and into the oven we go! Cooked to psychology’s order!

Right then the waitress interrupts them, placing her hand on the table between them, her arm with the sleeve rolled up, the striped shirt, a bunch of brightly colored bracelets, their invasive tinkling. Cooked to psychology’s order!, is what he is saying right then, and the waitress: kids—kids!—you can’t take up a table this long without buying anything, I’m afraid if you don’t order something else you’ll have to leave. Sure, sure, concedes Old Man. Sorry, murmurs Soon. Neither of them looks up—they stare instead at the arm, that fateful executioner’s arm. I’ll give you five minutes, she announces as she turns around, her voice dry, cutting, categorical. The countdown begins.