Strangely enough, I’m not particularly frightened. I’m nauseated by the sickly smell of lawn chemicals and fresh-mown grass clippings and fertilizer, but it’s as if I’m walking through my dramatic acting class role, a woman in a cemetery. I’m just another actress in another movie. This room is just another movie set. The gaffers are about to move the lights. I’m rehearsing my lines. “Can I get you anything, Ms. Ryuan? A bottle of water?” says an imaginary assistant. My agent is betting on this one. Maybe…I’d better stop this craziness. Shit! I’m scared.

Back to reality. Should I look for a light switch? I run my hand over the wall near the door. All I get is a small but nasty splinter from the molding.

Then I am startled by a woman’s voice. I think it’s nearby.

“Please, Lucy Ryuan, you can go back where you came from,” comes the voice, which has a Slavic accent.

Now I’m scared. And confused. “Go back where you came from.” Does she mean West Virginia or Brooklyn or Gramatan Hospital?

“Where?” I say. My voice is urgent. Or I think it is urgent.

“Go to the outside. Go to the pathway and walk left. You will meet someone. You will hear a voice call to you,” she says.

“Orlov?” I ask.

No answer.

“Who is it?”

No answer.

“Is it Orlov? Tell me.”

I hear what sounds like a Russian word of exasperation, then, “Just do what you’re told, Lucy Ryuan.”

So I do what I’m told. At least I’m trying to do what I’m told. I leave the shed, and I follow the pathway. When I come to a barely discernible fork in the path, I hesitate. That’s when I realize the woman who gave me my initial instructions is still walking close behind me.

I hear her voice. “I told you to turn left. Don’t you listen?”

I follow the pathway to the left. I am walking among a field of gravestones—elaborate mausoleums, simple concrete crosses, even simpler ground markers.

Suddenly a man’s voice calls. “Here, over here.” He then says, “2499 to 3500.” What the hell kind of secret code is this?

“Stop, Lucy Ryuan,” comes the woman’s voice. I still hear her walking behind me. Then she stands next to me.

“Follow me,” she says. Now she steps in front of me.

I notice two things. First, a brass sign with an arrow. It simply says MEMORIAL STONES 2499–3500. As I follow the woman, I look down. The second thing I notice are her feet. I realize she is wearing precisely the same shoes Troy and I saw on the hospital security video. I am pleased, I guess, but I am not surprised.

“Is the woman with you?” I hear the man’s voice. We are much closer to him.

“She’s with me,” the woman says.