Lydia stared at him. His age had stabilized so that he looked about twenty-eight. She felt so exuberant herself and for him, and here he was talking all that nonsense. She said, “Here I am, trying to figure out what’s happening, and all you do is spout this idiocy about our being dead. Now either stop it or don’t come in with me. You’ll just upset Cromwell. When I saw him last, he was confused enough.”

“I’ll be quiet,” Lawrence said.

“Well, that’s better.” Lydia grinned and went waltzing into the common room.

She gasped. Toothless Cromwell looked simply awful. “Oh, Larry,” she said, involuntarily. Lawrence said nothing. He just tightened his grip on her arm. Patients sat in wheelchairs all around the walls of the room. Some, like Cromwell, were tied into their chairs. Cromwell’s face was sunken. He’d kicked off his shoes and socks, and he no longer had any teeth at all. The TV was on: a ball game, poorly focused.

The announcer called the plays of the game. An old woman snored loudly. She was sitting up quite neatly in her wheelchair, and held a melting chocolate cookie.

“That old woman looks vaguely familiar,” Lydia said. “I’ve had this dream before.”

“Have you?” Lawrence almost smiled. He might be able to convince her of the truth now. She might believe it, if only to get out of this place.

“What’s that noise?” Lydia asked. “You can’t hear yourself think.”

He listened. “Drums, singing, a terrible band….”

“Oh,” she said. “The Mission Society’s Sunday services! I never went to that, thank you, mad or no—”

“When didn’t you go?” Lawrence asked.

“Well, on Sundays when they had it—”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Oh, hush. Who knows what you mean.” Lydia stopped. A young man sat on the windowsill, reading. He had red hair and wore a green fedora, which was silly but nice, she thought. She poked Lawrence. “I wonder who he is. He doesn’t act like a visitor, and he certainly can’t be an attendant.”

At the same time a young woman appeared. She looked agitated, almost angry, and before Lawrence or Lydia could say or do anything, she strode to the door and out into the hall. They followed her. The off-key band was louder now, its “music” obviously coming from an open room at the end of the hall. The young woman stood in the doorway, looking in. Almost insolently. Then she cried angrily: “Lousy racket. For God’s sake, can’t you just quit and go home? These poor old people—you’d drive them mad if they weren’t already—” The music went on. “Idiots!” the woman shouted, coming back. “Isn’t that the end?” she said to Lydia. “Who are you, anyhow? You don’t belong here.”

“I’m Lydia—”

“Lydia! What on Earth are you doing back here?”