Dr. Saul once explained to me that he’s one of only four neurosurgeons capable of carrying out reliable tests with it. “The monster peers into the brain for us. We can ask questions such as ‘Did you eat a clown for breakfast?’ and see if there’s a response in the middle prefrontal cortex. We can inject a fluorescent substance into the patient and measure his or her glucose consumption. If the brain continues to consume nutrients, then there’s a high probability that the patient is using them. We can even stimulate his or her motor imagination. ‘Play tennis! Hop on one leg! Imagine that you’re clenching your fist!’ We can do any of those things and the lights would start to blink, but unfortunately hardly anyone can interpret the signals. Nobody knows if it’s a reaction or simply a loose contact. The machine is smart, and we are stupid.”

Nevertheless, God says to Dmitry, “Please prepare Mr. Skinner,” then motions to Eddie and me to follow him into his office. I take my time getting to my feet. Eddie brushes the remaining strands of hair next to the scar from my father’s operation out of his face. Her gesture is full of love, fear, and infinite sadness. Then she looks at me and says, “Come to us,” reaching across my father’s chest. I remove my disposable glove, take her hand, and then clasp his right fingers. She grasps his left hand and we stand there, united.

Eddie checks that we’re alone and asks, “Tell me how you do it, Sam. Will this work?”

I immediately understand what she means, but I don’t know how to explain it to her.

I hear Scott’s grave future-psychologist voice echoing in my mind. “Mon ami, your only hope is occasionally to make contact with the outside world. Use pictures to explain. People like pictures.”

So I try to put it into pictures. I can intensify my perception of everything I see by combining the senses, as if I were dialing up the volume or pushing a button up to maximum. Bright numbers, scented music, fragrances that paint pictures, colored pain, lies, anger, emotions, echoes from buildings.

“Is he here now?” she asks.

I stare into my father’s open, unresponsive eyes. I can feel he’s there below the surface, just as you can perceive someone’s presence behind a door. The atmosphere is different—denser, warmer.

“Yes,” I reply.

She gasps, her expression a mixture of disbelief and devotion. “Can he hear me?” she asks with longing and doubt in her voice.

“What do you think?” I say. Maybe she too has an amplifier inside her. Maybe everyone does but simply doesn’t know it.

Eddie gazes at my father, and the words wrench themselves from her lips. “Oh—H-Henri,” she stammers. “Oh, Henri, I love you.”