She had been one of those who didn’t believe in multiple personalities. But after he had been there a few months, she lost her fear of him. He made it a point to tell her what he’d told all the women on the unit—that they should not worry if he ever switched to Ragen, because Ragen would never harm a woman or a child.

She got along well with him now. She would check on him in his room from time to time, and they would have long talks. She found herself starting to like him and to believe he was a tormented multiple personality. She and Nurse Pat Perry defended him to those of the staff who were still hostile.

Wanda Pancake met Danny for the first time when she saw him lying on the couch trying to pull the buttons off the tufted vinyl back. She asked him why he was doing that.

“Just tryin’ to pull them off,” he said in a boyish voice. “Well, stop it. Who are you, anyway?”

He laughed and pulled harder. “I’m Danny.”

“Well, if you don’t stop, Danny, I’m gonna slap your hands.”

He looked up at her and gave a few extra tugs to have the last lick, but when she came closer, he stopped.

The next time she met Danny, he was throwing clothes and some of his personal possessions into the trash can.

“What are you doing?”

“Throwing stuff away.”

“Why?”

“Ain’t mine. I don’t want ’em.”

“Now, you’ve got to stop it. Take that stuff back into your room, Danny.”

He walked away, leaving the things in the trash, and Wanda had to pull them out and put them back in his room.

Several times she caught him throwing away clothes and cigarettes. Other times people would bring back things he had thrown out the window. Later, Billy would always ask who had been taking his things.

One day she brought her eighteen-month-old niece, Misty, back to the recreation room, where Billy was painting. When he leaned over and smiled, the baby drew back and cried. Billy looked at her ruefully and said, “You’re kind of young to be reading the newspapers, aren’t you?”.

Wanda looked at the landscape he was working on. “That’s really good Billy,” she said. “You know, I’d like to own one of your paintings. I don’t have much money, but if you’d paint me a deer, just a small picture, I’d be glad to pay for it.”

“I’ll work on something,” he said. “But first I’d like to do a portrait of Misty.”

He began painting Misty, pleased that Wanda liked his work. She was down-to-earth, easier to talk to than most of the Dthers. He knew she was divorced, had no children, find that she lived in a trailer near her family in the small Appalachian town where she’d been born. She was rugged, a tough young woman with a dimpled smile and probing eyes.

He was thinking about her one afternoon while he jogged around the building when she pulled up in her pickup truck, a sharp new four-wheel drive.