Two things happened then, almost but not quite at once. First, Sweet Young Thing’s voice came from the hall; she was obviously approaching. Lydia’s eyes flew to the pill again, where it lay out in plain sight. Next, Cromwell did … something … that she couldn’t put her finger on. She just sensed the quickest, most eerie feeling of some kind of communication going on between him and Mariah, whose wheelchair wasn’t strapped to the wall as theirs were. In almost the same instant, with nothing being said, Mariah wheeled out to the center of the room. The wheel of her chair went crunching over the tiny pill, smashing it into the smallest of pieces.

“La la la la,” sang Mariah, wheeling back and forth in the same spot, never looking down. Now the pill was white powder, scattered so thinly as to be invisible. “La la la,” went Mariah, with her tongue lolling. She looked over and gave Lydia a broad wink. Cromwell chuckled, yes, chuckled quite sanely, Lydia realized. Then Mariah banged on the chair so that it made a defiant, satisfying thud.

“My, my, what a lovely song,” Sweet Young Thing said, entering the room. Lydia’s heart sank, but the nurse didn’t even look at the floor. Mariah kept chanting, “La la la,” sounding quite like the senile old lady she was supposed to be.

Sweet Young Thing said, “Now let’s wheel you over to the window, out of the center of the floor so other people can get by. There! I’ll turn the television set on, so you can watch before supper.” Then she left the room.

“Got lost, huh?” Cromwell said. His words were slurred, as they usually were. He had the same old white bib tied about his neck in case he salivated too much and dribbled. His hands danced around each other as if they had a life of their own. Yet his eyes were crafty, amused, and in a strange way guileless.

“You got a bib on too, ya know,” he said as if reading her thoughts. “What? What?” Lydia’s voice was harsh. She could hardly hear what he was saying above the television program.

“When we was on our flying stroll you just plinked out—you got carried away somewhere—” The words ran together, but made sense.

“Hush, hush,” she snapped. They’ll hear you.” She glanced quickly, fearfully, all around. “Sometimes I think I am batty.” she cried.

This sent Mariah and Cromwell into gales of laughter. Mariah wheeled herself up close to Lydia and screeched: “Fly, fly like a bird. Tweet. Tweet. Tweet. Tweety.” She waved her arms in the air and made a face, giggling all the while.

Then, exhausted, she fell back in her chair.