The shock woke her up with her heart thundering, her eyes wide. There was gray daylight at the windows. Rain dripping from the branches of the plane trees. The cough and grumble of heavy traffic stopped at a light somewhere below. She rolled her head on the pillow as her pulse slowed. The blank screen of the television stared at her moronically from the bureau. And there beside it—to her vague surprise—was her brother Peter. Slouched in a low-slung armchair, his legs crossed at the knee. Brutally flipping through a copy of Time Out.

He caught her movement and saw she was awake. Immediately, he slipped into an attitude as if off the rim of a pool. He became insouciant, droll. He tossed the magazine aside.

“You should take it easy with this suicide business, Sophia,” he said. “You might hurt yourself.”

She licked her lips. Swallowed painfully. The room gave a nauseating roll. She saw the transparent bag above her, the transparent fluid in it, the tube running down to her wrist. She saw the smeary punters in the print of Cambridge on the blue wall. Everything tilting over. And then her brother again. Wearing the bulky white pullover she had brought him back from Dublin. Looking pale and old beneath his curly black hair. Raw and sore.

“Tell them to stop drugging me, Peter,” she mumbled.

“Ah …”

“I won’t throw myself out the window or anything. Promise.”

“Yes, well, the worth of your assurances is a bit low on the exchange just at the moment.”

“It’s making me ill.”

“I’ll do what I can, darling. The Great Man, as ever, guides these matters with a more or less inflexible will.” He smirked, but his smirk looked painful. He pushed from the chair to stand nonchalantly. Strolled nonchalantly to the window. One hand in the pocket of his jeans, the other tossing about at his belt line. He glanced nonchalantly at the traffic below. He was very nonchalant. “You’ve led him quite a merry chase these last two days, you know. It hasn’t been easy on him. Lying to the me dia, tranquilizing Mr. Plod. He’s been a busy little knight of the realm indeed.” A casual look back at her, a raised eyebrow. “You’ve developed asthma, by the way. That’s how we’re explaining things. I thought you should know. We’re all running around like mad, telling everyone about poor Sophia’s asthma. They send their condolences.”

“Poor Sophia,” she whispered, trying to help him out, trying to catch his ironical tone. But she was getting woozy again, sleepy, sinking. The waves were rising over her as she went down. She made a noise of exasperation, shook her head in an effort to get her chin up above water.