One morning, Rosalie watched as Billy Milligan sat on the steps outside Wakefield Cottage, moving his lips, talking to himself. A change came over him. He looked up, startled, shook his head, touched his cheek.

Then he noticed a butterfly, reached out and caught it. When he peeked between his cupped palms, he jumped to his feet with a cry. He moved his open hands, sweeping them upward as if to help the butterfly take flight again. It fell to the ground and lay there. He looked at it in anguish.

As Rosalie approached him, he turned, obviously frightened, tears in his eyes. She had the feeling, without knowing why, that this was someone different from the others she had met He picked up the butterfly. "It don’t fly anymore.”

She smiled at him warmly, wondering if she should risk calling him by his right name. Finally she whispered "Hello, Billy. I’ve been waiting for a long time to meet you.”

She sat beside him on the steps as he hugged his knees and looked in awe at the grass and the trees and the sky.

A few days later, in mini-group, Arthur allowed Billy to take the spot again and work with clay. Nick encouraged him to model a head, and Billy worked at it for nearly an hour, rolling the clay into a ball, adding pieces for eyes and a nose, and pushing in two pellets for the irises.

“I made a head,” he said proudly.

“That’s very good,” said Nick. “Who is it supposed to be?”

“Does it have to be someone?”

“No, I just thought it might be.”

As Billy glanced away, Allen took the spot and looked at the clay head in disgust—it was just a gray blob with pellets of clay stuck on it. He picked up the modeling tool to reshape it. He’d turn it into a bust of Abraham Lincoln or maybe Dr. George, and show Nick what real sculpture was.

As he moved toward the face, the tool slipped, digging into his arm and drawing blood.

Allen’s mouth fell open. He knew he hadn’t been that clumsy. Suddenly, he felt himself thrown against the wall. Damnit. Ragen again.

“What’d I do now?” he whispered.

The answer echoed in his head. “You do not ever touch Billy’s vork.”

“Hell, I was only going to—”

“You were going to show off. To show you are talented artist. But now is more important for Billy to have therapy.”

That evening, alone in his room, Allen complained to Arthur that he was sick and tired of being pushed around by Ragen. “If he’s so finicky about everything, let him or one of the others handle it.”

“You’ve been quite argumentative,” Arthur said. “Creating dissension. Because of you, Dr. Pugliese dropped us from group therapy. Your constant manipulation has created hostility in many of the Wakefield staff.”

“Well, then, let someone else handle things. Put on someone who doesn’t talk much. Billy and the children need the treatment. Let them deal with these people.”