My father is in turmoil, as if he were hurling himself, over and over, against the bars of his inner jail. But Eddie’s right: none of this is obvious from his face or his pulse.

Maybe I’m kidding myself? No. No way. I can feel my father as clearly as if he were talking to me.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s go to see Dr. Saul. He’ll tell us what he can do.”

Eddie

“Fish don’t plait their hair,” says Dr. Saul. “Dragonflies write poetry.”

Ten times he utters a completely nonsensical phrase in order to activate particular areas of Henri’s brain that only respond when the brain registers something absurd or must solve a puzzle. Henri’s brain appears to have no interest whatsoever in riddles, for Dr. Saul shakes his blond-haired head again and again.

“Hello, Mr. Skinner? I’m your doctor. Your name is Henri Malo Skinner, and you’ve been at the Wellington Hospital in London for the past forty-four days. You’re living in a coma, Mr. Skinner. You’ve been transferred to a brain scanner that is measuring activity in your middle prefrontal cortex.”

Sam is standing beside me. His attention is focused on the huge, humming apparatus into which his father has just been pushed—the MRI tube, otherwise known as the “monster.” A ring fitted with special cameras is revolving inside it, dividing the brain into slices, alert for any light signals that might emerge from the darkness.

“Imagine that you’re standing on a golf course, hitting a ball,” Dr. Saul says now.

“That’s stupid,” Sam mutters, and I must agree. The fMRI is designed to highlight the same task-specific areas of the brain that are activated when the patient imagines particular movements— for example, while Henri is imagining swinging a golf club—as when a healthy individual dreams of standing on the fairway.

“In your mind, please clench your fist,” the doctor orders. “Imagine that you’re wiggling your toes.” He also asks Henri to imagine that he’s playing tennis and soccer and then dancing.

Electric sensors attached to Henri’s head and chest register every signal so that Dr. Saul can identify—if not on-screen, then on the MRI printer—any response.

I want Saul and Foss and their bloody monster finally to confirm that Henri is truly there. Not because I don’t believe Sam, but because I don’t believe myself. I don’t trust myself, nor do I trust the doctors to listen to us.

Nothing in Henri’s brain suggests that he’s imagining any of the desired movements. Nothing indicates that he isn’t lying still simply because he doesn’t know he’s in a coma.

“Mr. Skinner? Mr. Henri Skinner?”

The theta-wave test. I watch Dr. Saul, but he’s concentrating on the monitors.