“You happen to be right,” George replied. “And if these things happened—well, they happened. Only why to me, for Christ’s sake?”

“What about me?” Gregory Diggs exclaimed. Then, slowly, “You know, I’ve done a lot of thinking lately and I might have found an answer to that, sort of.”

He paused, and George said, “Well, come on, out with it. Hell, I’m really interested.”

Gregory looked at the floor, then said, “Well, I’m not looking for sympathy, but my childhood was crummy. Poor. Father was a drunk. Mother not much better. Five kids. I didn’t think anyone cared a shit about me; I mean nobody … And for a bunch of years at night sometimes I used to—I don’t know how to say this—stare at the sky and think, ‘You sunabitchin’ universe, you could do some tiny nice thing just for me if you wanted.’ I didn’t care how small it was; but I wanted some tiny miracle at least that was just for me, to let me know that life or the universe or something knew I was alive. And cared.”

Gregory muttered the last sentences, yet spoke them so quickly that George and Seven had difficulty understanding him. When Gregory was finished, George said, “Hell, I’m sorry….”

“But don’t you see?” Gregory interrupted, speaking firmly now. “I think that was it, somehow. I mean, back then I wanted a miracle so bad. So maybe it just took this long for one to catch up with me.”

Forgetting himself, Seven cried, “Of course! I forgot how important you are in all of this. Now I see why. Your intent—”

“I wish somebody would explain it all to me,” George said, interrupting. Then, to Gregory, “Gaslights, you said?”

Gregory just nodded.

“So what’s to be done?” Seven asked briskly.

George Brainbridge stood up, his face full of resoluteness, his eyes narrowed with intentness, his hands on his hips. “I’m going to check out John Window,” he declared. “And if he can heal gums or anything else, the world, or somebody should know about it. The medical society. God knows who.”

“No, you can’t do that,” Gregory protested. “They’d make his life a living hell. You don’t understand. When Window thinks he’s Christ, he can heal, at least he healed me, but he’s paranoid. He’s afraid that … he’ll be crucified. I mean he really gets panicky. I admit it sounds screwy, but to tell the authorities would scare Window to death.”

“Well, what do you suggest, then?” George asked, exasperated. “I thought you wanted publicity.”

“I don’t know what to do. Nothing, maybe,” Gregory said, in a subdued tone.

“And if the guy has been healing, say, other patients, how come it isn’t out by now?” George asked.