“What do you mean?”

“Let’s think of things that might happen and how you might respond. Suppose you were walking down Court Street and a female saw you, recognized you and just walked up to you and slapped the hell out of you right across your face without any warning. Do you understand that’s a possibility? People know who you are. What would you do?”

Billy put his hand to his cheek. “I would just step aside and walk around her.”

“All right. Suppose a man walked up to you and called you a dirty name, called you a rapist, and then punched you, knocked you down on the street? What would you do?”

“Dr. Caul,” Billy said, “I would just lie there rather than go back to prison. I would just lie there and hope that he would go on and leave me alone.”

Caul smiled. “Maybe you’ve learned something. I guess we re just going to have to give you the chance to show you have.”

The first time Billy went to town alone, he felt a mixture of headiness and fear. He crossed the streets carefully at comers so that the police wouldn’t cite him for jaywalking. He was aware of the people who passed him, praying that no one would come up and attack him. If anyone did, he wouldn’t respond. He would do exactly what he’d told Dr. Caul.

He bought art supplies and then went into Your Father’s Mustache barbershop. Norma Dishong had called ahead, alerting the manager and staff to the fact that Billy Milligan was coming to have his hair cut. People there greeted him with “Hi, Billy,” “Hows it going, Billy?” and “Hey, you're looking good, Billy.”

Bobbie, the young woman who cut and styled his hair, spoke to him sympathetically and refused to accept payment. He could come in at any time, she said, without an appointment, and she'd cut his hair free of charge.

Out on the street, several students, recognizing him, waved and smiled. He went back to the hospital feeling terrific. None of the terrible things Dr. Caul had prepared him for had happened. Everything was going to be all right.

On February 19, Dorothy visited her son alone. Billy taped their conversation. He wanted to learn more about his childhood, to understand why his father, Johnny Morrison, had committed suicide.

“You built your own image of your father,” Dorothy said. “Sometimes you would ask me questions and I’d answer them to my best ability, but I never tore him down. I never told the sad things. Why hurt you kids? You built your own image, and that was your dad.”

“Tell me again,” Billy said. “About the time in Florida when you gave him every bit of money you had so he could go on the road, and there was nothing in the house but a can of tuna and a box of macaroni. Did he come back with the money?”

“No. He went on to the borscht circuit. I don’t know what happened there. He came back with his—”