Karen breathes to stop her urge to beat the shit out of the three Trinity College wackos. Fucking testosterone. So that’s how it is at the top of the food chain, shot to the top with the injection of a few doses. These female babies that begin shortly after birth, still half blind, to stare into faces and start to think how they can push the very people who are looking at them around in a wheelchair. All these woman-thoughts—how will I find a man, how will I get everyone to like me, what will I wear at my funeral, am I too loud, too demanding, am I shaved enough, nice enough, pretty enough—WTF, it could be cured. One injection per week and world history would be rewritten. Karen sweats. She sweats more now and usually has a strong rushing sound in her head that exits through her ears, as if water has flooded her brain and is washing away her thoughts. Think about it. What would happen if I were to smash my fist through a window? She doesn’t ask herself that anymore, the little delay that balances every act with a possible effect has disappeared. She has too much energy, which is why she started all this running, something she had previously regarded with contempt. It’s always the most inconspicuous creatures who beg for a longer life with every step. Karen runs. She feels good. It seems to her that after setting the virus adrift in the Thames and with the pressure inside her gone, she might for the first time in ages be taking some joy in life again. She looks at buildings and trees and it isn’t so bad to be alive. As long as there is something to do that challenges you and excites you, as long as that, it’s not so bad. Karen has forgotten the homeless. She forgets everything of late. Including the reason she is running around here. In the park, past benches.

On one of which sits

DR. BROWN