I asked her if she felt she was now closer to water machine.

“Nearly ready to run program,” she said.

It was at this point that Nurse Monro entered to adjust Jordan’s drip. Jordan did not seem to want to speak to me in her presence, so I had to repeat myself several times before she would answer me. I asked Jordan what “run program” meant.

“Connection with water machine. Water machine water machine water machine water machine. I want my water machine. Change my brain but my heart stays. And every bang goes I want my water machine.”

“Aren’t you afraid of dying, Jordan?”

“Are you?”

Although this reply was brief, it did not sound like any voice I’d heard her use before. I wondered if this was her former manner of everyday speech.

“To be honest,” I said, “I find it absolutely terrifying. I don’t want to continue to exist as flowing water, I want to remain a person, as I must.”

“Are you really afraid of dying?” she asked, once again in that normal tone.

“I am,” I told her. “Are you?”

“I want my water machine” she said, still in the normal-sounding way.

I told Jordan not to worry, that we would have her feeling good again in no time. Jordan smiled at this and looked me in the eye. At this moment, I suddenly felt close to her and began to wonder if I were not in danger of overstepping the boundaries of my therapeutic role, but the chief significance of this observation was the uncharacteristic gregarity or reciprocity involved in this moment. It seemed to me that she might have achieved a momentary suspense of her uncontrolled ideation and managed to relate to me in a more socially-healthy way.

She said, “Four four eight niner.”

I returned her gaze and said, “Yes.”