“No,” Waterson said. “There are memory issues, certainly, that much we knew. But they are not consistent with what we typically see in dementia. They aren’t impacting the same areas of the brain. In fact, some of those areas actually seem somewhat improved, I think. Her short-term memory, for example, is fine. We may be looking at something altogether different.”

“What do you mean? Different, how?”

“You must remember, I am not a psychiatric doctor, Mr. Adams. I am not the right person to diagnose anything, but I have been trained in the use of Meld. I know what to look for. I saw clear evidence of mild depression, some definite paranoia and perhaps even schizophrenic disorder. We’ll need a brain scan to be absolutely certain, but the synaptic activity I sensed seemed well above what we’d expect in dementia. I actually feel her memory is fairly sound, under the circumstances.”

“How can this be possible?” the clone asked. “You’ve been talking about the onset of her dementia for a year now.”

“This guy is cracked,” Jeremiah said. Brent started typing again.

“If I’m not mistaken,” Waterson said, “there is a family history of schizophrenia, isn’t there?”

“Yes,” the clone told him. “My uncle. Her brother. But she’s never shown any signs of that.”

“It’s not completely out of the question, though. These episodes of hers, the things I saw with the Meld, it may point to a latent tendency toward schizophrenia. Earlier signs of the disorder might have been missed for all we know.”

“I just never thought it would touch her,” the clone said. “I thought that, after all this time, she was fine in that respect.”

In the lab, Jeremiah wondered about the implications of that possibility.

“As I said,” Waterson told the clone, “I’m not the right person to diagnose this. I’m just relaying my impressions from the Meld experience.”

“Does this mean she won’t have to be moved, after all?” the clone asked.

“For the moment, I wouldn’t be opposed to her staying here with us. Emotionally, it might be best for her to stay. I’d like to bring in a specialist, perhaps even put her under the Meld again. That’s quite an exhilarating drug you’ve got there.”

“So I’ve heard,” the clone said.

For the next few hours, Jeremiah paid hardly any attention to the monitor. He had no desire to watch the clone drag through his day at the office after what he’d just seen. Instead, he allowed his mind to wander to thoughts that twisted back in on themselves until he felt dizzy: If his mother could slip so quickly into mental illness, what did that mean for him? Or had the Meld sparked something that had lain dormant in her all this time? What if he’d been wrong all these years about her? What if the things he’d always thought of as eccentric—all her moving around, her restlessness and curiosity—pointed to something more serious than simple quirks? He’d taken the drug more times than she had. Was it having the same impact on his own mind? Could the Meld suicides be related to some dormant insanity? And far more troubling, if his mother didn’t have dementia, why the hell did she suddenly not recognize the clone as her son?